#they have the town contain in a ghost shield but it is only matter of time before the energy source break out and infect the rest of the wor

[ecto-stone]

radio pirate but instead of adult disapearing. Ember and Youngblood work together to make the effect they have on the youth of amity park stronger and harder to break. But Jack and Mad quickly catched on that it is the works of ghost but not fast enough to have their son and daughter one of the first batch of kid disapearing. But now who would believe the two crazy hack trouble some scientist of the town.

Skunk Punk Reunited.

[redrobin-detective]

handknit sweater, never worn

How did Valerie end up in these kinds of situations? Of course there had to be a large scale ghost attack at her school. Val had gotten rid of most of the ghosts, weak mindless things when part of the auditorium collapsed, trapping her inside. Normally she’d blast her way out but the old building was creaking ominously from who know how many fights. Her rockets might collapse the whole south side of the school, meaning she was stuck here while the Fentons cleaned up the rest of the small fry. And to make matters worse, Danny’s dad had had the brilliant idea to put up a portable ghost shield around parts of the school to contain the ghosts. Meaning Phantom and the spooky vampire ghost were stuck with her too.

“Ugh this sucks,” Phantom whined, leaning petulantly against the ghost shield. His arms were crossed and his eyes lidded with annoyance, he almost could have passed for a normal, annoyed high schooler if you ignored his unnatural glow. “They really increased the power on these shields, I hope they’re okay out there by themselves. I think most of the students were evacuated already.” He glanced subtlety over at her which only increased her irritation. It was so aggravating he knew everything about her while she knew nothing about him.

“Madeline’s handiwork no doubt,” The vampire guy, Plasmius, commented flippantly. “I don’t believe Jack could assemble a sandwich without her assistance.” Phantom bristled a bit at the comment but just turned to glare at empty air. While she’d once mistaken them for friends, it was clear there was serious bad blood between Plasmius and Phantom. 

“What are you even doing here, Plasmius?” Phantom hissed, crossing his arms closer to his chest in aggravation. “I’ve told you a million times to stay out of Amity.”

“Or you’ll do what, dear boy?” Plasmius grinned, flashing his fangs, like Phantom had told a particularly funny joke. Val privately considered the ghost boy to be one of the strongest ghosts she’d ever fought so if this guy was treating him like an annoying fly... Valerie kept her weapons up just in case but otherwise stayed away from the two volatile ghosts. She could take them down if she had to but there might be collateral. Right, that’s what she was going to go with.

“Actually,” Plasmius said, his cruel red eyes twinkling with smug glee. “I popped into town to check in on some of my old college friends. See what they’d been up to while I’d been busy with my various projects.”

Phantom kept his casual posture but went rigid, he did a quick glance over at her before moving back over to the ghost. “Now? You’re doing this now?”

“It’s always a good time to hurt you and besides,” another throaty chuckle, “I thought Ms. Grey might be interested.” Ok, was there any ghost that didn’t know her identity?

“Anyway, the wife was out but I found my fat, stupid old friend,” another twitch from Phantom, “back at his old favorite past time of knitting. It looked like he was making a sweater.”

“You’re a real bastard, you know that?” Phantom hissed, his form looking more and more defensive by the minute. Valerie had no idea what they were talking about but it clearly was upsetting the Ghost Kid. Usually she’d be pleased but it was kind of uncomfortable to watch.

“Hmm,” the vampire ghost hummed, still radiating cruel satisfaction. “I’m sure you’ve seen it too considering how often you’re in that house. He was working so hard on it, so furiously. No doubt trying to get it done in time for Christmas. A beautiful, handmade sweater for his wayward son who’s never going to get the chance to wear it.”

Oh shit, Plasmius was talking about Phantom’s dad. She’d assumed the beef between them started once they’d become ghosts but clearly there was history that extended to when they’d both been alive. Imagining Phantom alive, with parents... it was too weird.

“Shut up, I’m going to wear the sweater,” Phantom muttered weakly, curling in on himself. He’d scooted as far away from Plasmius as he could get. 

“Oh but he’s not making it for you, Danny Phantom,” Plasmius lilted with a smirk causing Phantom to wince. “He’s making it for his normal, human son who he doesn’t even have the brains to realize doesn’t exist anymore. Would he bother to spend so much time and energy on a sweater that could only be worn by a ghost? To see proof of his own failure as a father?”

“Hey, it was my fault,” Phantom defended, finally snapping out of his sad and guilty funk. He balled his fists and glared at Plasmius with all he had. “I don’t blame them for what happened, I love them and they love me and nothing you say will ever change that!”

“Then why don’t you tell them, Daniel,” Plasmius asked with a raised eyebrow. “If you’re so confident in their love, then tell them. Tell them the sweater is pointless because you thrive in the cold. Tell them that their mistakes and negligence led to you becoming an unnatural abomination not fit to exist in either world.”

“Only-” Phantom’s voice caught and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Only if you tell them first. You may have been their friend at one point a long time ago but all you’ve done since then is hurt people, hurt me. For all their flaws, I don’t think they’ll ever forgive you for that.”

“Touché, son,” Plasmius scoffed. “Now then, I’m afraid our discussion will have to continue another time. I believe the power on the ghosts shield should be fading right about...” a low whine and the green wall surrounding them disappeared. “Ta ta for now you petulant child. Ms. Grey, a pleasure as always. Be careful with this one, he’s an experienced cheat and a liar.” With those parting words, Plasmius disappeared in a swirl of pink.

Valerie thought Phantom would leave too but instead he let out a long breath and ran his gloved fingers through his hair. After a moment he straightened himself up and looked as cool and confident as he ever did. 

“The Fentons have probably rounded up the rest of the ghost but we might as well check, you check by the cafeteria and I’ll go through the classrooms.”

“Why?” Valerie found herself asking, not sure what she meant. Why did Phantom die? Why was he so afraid to let his apparently still living parents know what happened? Why did he try so hard to help people when everyone, including her, was so against him?

“It’s the right thing I guess,” Phantom shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck. “My uh my parents raised me that way and if it lost that after everything, well, then the person I was before really will be gone.” He floated over to her, gently phasing them both through the wreckage connecting them to the rest of the school and, for a second Valerie saw a scared, human kid in over his head. Then the illusion was gone and it was just Phantom, annoying as always.

“Check the classrooms and if there’s no ghosts then I’m gunning for you,” Val said instead, activating her hoverboard and speeding off before he could answer. She readied her weapons and didn’t think of childless parents living in ignorance of what they’d lost or lonely sons who were too afraid to ask if their parents would love them even as a monster. 

She just wanted to get the ghost scum out of her school and move on with her life. But still, she couldn’t help but think that, come Christmas time, she’d find Phantom in a handknit sweater intended to ward off a chill he could not longer feel. 

[sweetpxxches]

The little things in Nevada matter most. (Ch. 1)

Hank/Sanford/Deimos/Reader Fic, baby.

This fic has chapters, so this is the first one! I will link the new chapters as ones go by.

Warnings will be listed here as chapters are made, as of now, Chapter 1 contains:

- Alcohol 

- Mild mentions of gore

- Fluff

This chapter’s just the beginning of finding each other out. This is a lot so heck yeah!

Reader is AFAB and uses gender neutral pronouns. (they/them) ^-^

Chapter list: 1 - ?

It was an early evening in Nevada, you missed the sounds of crickets chirping in the night. But due to the events that happened in this place, there is lack of life that surrounds it. All that is left are demons, clowns, sheriffs, and all that utter nonsense that you question how badly this had to be for a state to become it's new circle of Hell. But at that point, it wasn't really worth thinking too hard on. You instead just think about how at least thankful life was to you to give you friends so your life isn't too lonely. Without Hank, Deimos, Sanford, and 2BDamned, life would of been miserable. Despite what they're here for, the red and black tints of the skies seem blue to you. You were sitting on the edge of a bridge, kicking your legs as you took a sip out of soda can, letting the wind blow passed your hair. But you felt the ground rumble and you swiftly got up to face where it was coming from, and you saw the three familiar figures in a truck. With a sigh of relief, you waved at them and they drove by to you. Sanford poked out at the back of the truck, waving. "Hey, Mercenary! We're heading out to look for some bars around here, you up for that?" You shrugged it off, chugging down the rest of your drink and tossing the can over the bridge. "Sure, why not? Not like I got much better to do. Place has been extra quiet since we've bombed one of those factories earlier." You saw Deimos reached out to you, and you grabbed his arm as he tugged you up between you and Sanford. "Welcome aboard, then!" Deimos laughed, patting your shoulder. You smiled at the two, getting yourself comfortable. You turned your head over to Hank, who looked back and nodded. "Glad to see you in one piece, Merc." He said as he started the engine and began driving off. "Good to see you didn't die again either, Hank." You joked, leaning back. It was almost like things were back to normal, the aura of happiness and the cheerful conversations filled your heart with a sense of serenity. It is a rare occasion just to feel the serenity of friendship. Then again, if you could even consider this as friendship. These three made your heart confused, and so your mind. The more you thought about it, the more it felt like you had decisions to make on the long end. Sanford was the gentle yet mature one in the bunch, his body may be brawns but he was also brains. He didn't take jokes a lot, but sometimes he does choose to have fun with others whenever he can, as well as how caring he is for the group. Sometimes you wonder if he's secretly a major softie who would own rabbits for a living. Then there was Deimos, a cunning and suave guy who most would consider a 'bastard' for how he behaves. Always has a cigarette between his teeth as well as a smug demeanor. You couldn't help but smirk at the times of Deimos trying to show off to you a few times when you first joined the crew, and Hank always telling him to keep his pants on. The one time Deimos even attempted went to failure due to him flexing while trying to shoot with one hand, but his hand got blasted off from a heavy bullet blow, making him shriek and fall over. Although cruel, you laughed at his awful attempt at playing Chad. But despite it all, you still care for the goof. Then there was Hank. Quiet, down to business, but has a rather sadistic side of him. You could say he comes off cold, but there are moments in time where he shows a glint of emotion, most of the time when his bloodlust meets a 'sugar high' to the point he can't control it anymore and lets loose his inner need of murder. You find it intimidating, but also fascinating to see how far he can go. Of course most of the time it leads to him getting brutally killed, but somehow a few days later he always ends up coming back... You remember the first time you saw him get destroyed, a large MAG Agent managed to grab him by the head and ripped him apart, and it made you shriek out to him before Sanford dragged you out the room. But it was days later, you saw him come back as if none of that happened, and you just assumed that's how it will always be when Hank dies. And to no one's surprise, you were right. At that point, you began to care less about him getting killed, sometimes you use his body as a shield whenever he's fallen. Makes you wonder if Hank is even human at all, and is linked to some weird spiritual thing. But those were thoughts to keep to yourself, otherwise it'd make the room awkward, especially to Hank.

Despite it all, these three had their own stories and personalities to show, and you love all three of them.

You dazed off from the conversation between Sanford and Deimos, until you heard Deimos say your name. You blinked awake, looking over. "Huh?" "Hey, the ride's over, we found a place to hang out." Deimos got up and bounced off the truck, reaching over to you. You smiled down at him and jumped right into his arms, leading him to twirl you around and settle you down, making you chuckle. Sanford followed along, stretching his arms out. "Seems like this place is a ghost town right now, wonder why." "We're why, Sanford." Hank retorted, stepping out the truck as he placed two guns in his pocket, in case of anything. "Grunts and agents won't fuck with us, now imagine them fucking with us drunk." He scoffed, walking passed the three of you. You placed your hands behind you back, shrugging. "Oh well, let's hope there's drinks at least." The four of you made way into the bar, a bartender was cleaning an empty glass only to spot the four of you, immediately freezing up in fear. "S-Shit! It's you guys again!" The bartender stood back, keeping a tight grip on the glass in hand, but Hank slammed a hand down on the bar table. "Give us drinks, old man. Or it'll be big time for you." Hank ordered, and without hesitation from the man behind the bar, he simply did as he was told, although shaking in fear from the fact all for of you were present. You eyed him carefully, but sat on a stool twirling around it. "I swear, it gets too boring too quick whenever we have days off." Deimos sighed, sitting on a stool next to you. "You're telling me, this place tends to get quiet quick whenever it doesn't get busy. You think those AAHW Agents are planning something big?" Sanford asked, and saw Hank lean against the table, shrugging. "Hope so. If they're just gonna throw more grunts at our way, I'll consider that a big fuck you from them." He huffed, rolling his shoulder. You leaned on the table. "I dunno, if they retreated this long, it's gotta be something good!" Sanford chuckled, nodding off the statement. "Maybe, maybe... hey, I got an idea, let's all drink 'til something happens!" "Like alcohol poisoning?" You raised a brow at Sanford, and Deimos chuckled under his breath. "Right, right, I'm just saying it's our night, so let's make it worth while." The bartender slid down a few shots for the crew, Sanford took one shot with a quick swig, and raised the empty glass. "Come on, now! Let's do it!" Deimos looked at you and Hank, and the three of you shrugged it off and raised a glass to join with Sanford.

What felt like hours that were only minutes, Hank, Sanford, Deimos, and yourself decided to be reckless. Sanford was a strong one, taking the shots like they were water, while Deimos was making his way to getting on Sanford's level, as for Hank, it was hard to tell if the alcohol hit him at all. But unfortunately, out of this bunch, you were the weakest to alcohol, your mind was buzzing on your eighth shot, seeing the three mercenaries become six, or is it seven? You couldn't tell. But you snapped away when you felt Deimos tugging you over for some kind of sluggish dance. "C'mon, Mercenary! Let's fuck around for a while, will ya?!" He chirped, and you made a groggy 'wait no' as he pulled you around all playful, laughing his ass off. Deep down, you can't wait to kick this guy's ass once things die low. But as of now, everyone was getting tipsy, and who knows what nonsense they'll pull. The only thing you're hoping is Hank won't pull out a gun and shoot around like an idiot. Deep down, you feel like he'll do that. "Deimos, let go of me you idiot!" You shouted over his goofy laughter, but he ended up slipping off and having you two fall on the ground. Hank shook his head, sighing at the sight. "You two shouldn't have alcohol." He snorted, looking over to Sanford who was growing just as buzzed as the other two. It felt like he had to babysit you three, but Hank was personally enjoying the sight of his mercenaries being themselves with no consequences. After a few hours, the rest of the group was smashed. You couldn't tell who you were clinging on, but they were struggling to keep you in their arms. "Shit, what time is it? Is there a place to even hide?" Deimos slurred, wiping alcohol off his mouth. It seems the bartender made his way out before they could even ask for more, which made Deimos growl in frustration. "Dammit! That asshole ditched us!" He raised a fist, but Sanford held his shoulder. "Relax, soldier. We're done for the night. I'm fucking wasted!" He snorted, keeping a firm hold onto you. You looked up at Sanford, noticing you were facing his bare chest, making your eyes widen and have your cheeks flare up.

“Uh...” You blinked.

“Yeah, Merc?” Sanford looked down, noticing your expression. “Shit- you good? You look sick.” He stumbled up and settled you on the table, but you just seem dazed at how nice his body is. Or maybe that’s the alcohol speaking. Unfocused, you grabbed Sanford and Deimos by the shoulders for support. “Maybe we should head back to the hideout we had last time, hardly anyone... goes there.” You paused and blinked at the floor, seeing your feet stumbling. Hank seemed to be the only one capable of keeping his composure, though not really attempting to give anyone a hand at all. “You know what, since I’m not the one who’s fucked up here, I’ll drive everyone back. I figured you three wouldn’t control yourselves, not like I’d be surprised about it.” Hank left out the door, leaving the rest of you to struggle along the way. It was like a difficult obstacle in stepping from point A to point B, Deimos and Sanford pulling you around for support as you all waddled your way to the truck. It was a blur the moment you slumped into the back of the truck, the only thing you could feel was your brain growing an immense fatigue as well as someone keeping your body up. The moment you passed out, you could only feel the nausea upcoming. 

When you woke up, you were welcomed to a face between the bare chest of Sanford, which made you immediately bounce off. But the moment you did, your head pulsed in a sense of pain and confusion, making you hiss under your breath, gripping your forehead. “Son of a bitch...” You muttered, but you saw that Sanford and Deimos were still asleep. Despite them being out cold, you really didn’t expect to have Sanford allowing you to get that handsy with him. Or maybe he wanted you to be comfortable... then again, those were comfortable. But the thoughts went away quick when you felt your head spin, stomach ready to hurl. You went over the edge of the truck, throwing up the excess of what was left in your stomach, the hangover lighting up slightly from the release. You looked over to the edge ahead, seeing a familiar building. It seems that Hank managed to drive everyone home. You really couldn’t help but be thankful that Hank was at least caring enough to drag everyone back. Where Hank was is nowhere to be found, but you can assume he must of went inside without you and the other two. You looked over at Sanford and Deimos, you’re sure they’ll be fine on their own, no one comes here nor interferes in this area. Sluggishly, you rolled out over the edge of the truck, hopping off with a simple thud to the ground. As you dusted off and made way inside, you saw Hank just hanging out on the couch, head held back with a cigarette in his mouth. 

You always found it adorable how he is in his most calm state, you sometimes wish he was like this more often. Though unfortunately, he’s the least likely to contain himself. You could tell he’s still awake, because the moment you shut the door, he spoke. “You’ve finally managed to get up. Head still hurtin’?” You turned over to him, seeing he’s still lazy about. “Yeah, but I’ll get over it. Sanford and Deimos haven’t gotten up yet, but hey, I’m here.” You walked over and sat on a seat beside him, patting his head which only made him grunt at your brave actions. “Remind me to tell you guys when you have one too many, you guys were drinking for hours.” Hank sighed, pulling the cigarette out his mouth, letting the smoke pass his nostrils. “Sorry, I didn’t even catch the time when we even started. Sanford shouldn’t of challenged us... then again, you won anyway.” 

“That’s because I didn’t overdo it. Sanford tends to have too much fun on his free time.” Hank shrugged, “Besides, if I joined in the nonsense no one would be able to take anyone back home. I ain’t risking to crash into a building drunk, won’t be too fun missing my shots.” You could only chuckle, watching him wave his hands about. He wasn’t expressive in face, but his hands were. You wondered if it was a good idea to kill time with him if you would just...

“Hey, Mercenary.” Hank spoke up. “Oh! Yeah?” You blinked back out of thought, looking at him. “I was wondering... couldn’t help but notice how it was kind of cute to see you try and cling onto me earlier when you were drunk.” Your eyes widened in embarrassment, looking away immediately. “G-God! Are you serious?! Fuck I’m sorry, Hank- I really didn’t mean to-” “It’s fine, dear.” Hank waved it off, you can tell there’s a smirk under there. “In fact I didn’t mind you getting handsy.” You puffed your cheeks at him, then giving him a hit in the head, making his shoot up immediately. “Ow- hey!” Hank huffed, rubbing his head. “Bad enough I got my head kicked in everywhere!” You crossed your arms, feeling your cheeks warm from the flustered reaction. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I just don’t like it when you make a fool out of me, you always do that with everyone.” He looked at you, tilting his head lightly. “Now you know it’s not me trying to be a dick to you, Mercenary. I just do it because I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind me teasing you.” It took a moment, then you realized the way he worded it. You said he does it to everyone in the group, so does that mean he does it to ease everyone because he likes them? You blinked, looking at Hank. “Wait, you mean just me, or?”

“I mean everyone, you think I don’t bother Deimos and Sanford?” Hank continued for you, crossing his arms. It seems like dots are being made here, and you weren’t sure how to feel about it. Does he like the three of you the way you like them in return? It made you wonder. But you didn’t want to invade Hank’s personal stuff, you felt like he wasn’t aware of his own emotions. “Huh... Well, I guess I feel a little better about it now. Don’t know what you get out of it, though.” Hank looked over to you when you spoken that, and he looked back at the window, putting his cigarette out on his arm. “Honestly? Don’t know myself either, but it makes me feel a little better knowing it makes you guys get a kick out of my words, hahah.” 

You couldn’t help but smile at him, maybe he is feeling for certain things he wasn’t aware yet. And honestly, you want to help connect these dots for not only himself, but for everyone else. Maybe there is a spark that needs to be set alight, just unsure where to start. But as of now, you just want to enjoy the silence that remains in the room, closing your eyes as you smelled the remaining smoke in the room from Hank’s cigarette.

Maybe this little break for the group isn’t so bad.

[lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks]

Okay. So it wouldn’t do that much to Danny. Now… I’m the Mutant Town AU, how well would this Anti-Ecto medicine and routine work? (I can see Valerie post-Technus suit wanting to get on it and then feeling really out of it once she does)

oooooooh that's a good question, I really hadn't thought ahead about this decontamination treatment when I first mentioned it but I'm enjoying expanding on the concept! I've also decided that it's a slow acting oral treatment, either a tablet or a liquid, it can probably be injected as well as an emergency measure but that makes it more potent and prone to negative side effects

I feel like it wouldn't kill any regular humans no matter how contaminated they are because they are still human, but it would probably have a lot more side effects with people who are more heavily contaminated as it would start destroying human cells to get to the contaminated ones

I also feel like it wouldn't be a perfect cure-all, the Fentons have been using this stuff on themselves after lab accidents for years, but even they still have a level of ecto-contamination that it just can't shake off, like maybe they can take the active ectoplasm out of their systems but it can't unmutate the affected cells, so that mutation will just build and build over time

eg; Maddie and Jack are invulnerable to a lot of physical damage, which is the first level of mutation in every case, tougher, stronger, better immune system, just about everyone in Amity Park has a similar level of contamination, those things don't go away once they're decontaminated, the treatment just prevents further mutation, it's a treatment not a cure

it won't do a whole lot if you can't take the source of the contamination away, and Amity Park itself is the source, meaning that any kids given the treatment will probably have the ectoplasm in their system neutralised for a few days, but it'll just come right back before too long

but if we're talking about kids with powers, and not just physical mutations, then that would probably be different, using powers takes energy, that energy comes from the ectoplasm, neutralise the ectoplasm and there's no energy to fuel the powers

if you treated a superpowered kid, and then removed them from Amity Park, they wouldn't get their powers back, but as soon as they are returned to a contamination source, those powers will return, even if it's been years, the groundwork for the mutation is still in their body so it'll just pick up where it left off

Danny's source of contamination is his own body which is why the medication will never remove his powers for good without destroying his body

Valerie is more interesting, since her contamination source is the suit that is pretty much a part of her, my headcanon for that is that when Technus created the suit, he hadn't intended for Valerie's body to essentially absorb the tech and make it her own, cutting off his control over it

so her body is thrumming with ectoplasmic based tech, that is physically and psychically linked to her, if she wanted the decontamination treatment, she would have to completely disconnect from the suit and remove every particle of it (it's kinda like nano-tech I guess?)

which would be a very interesting character moment for Val, she can fight ghosts using their own power against them, but at the expense of becoming more like them, and if she was to remove all the ectoplasm in her system, she would have to reject the technology she relies on to fight them

she could conceivably remove the suit, get the treatment, leave Amity Park and remain totally human, if she removed the suit, got the treatment, but stayed in Amity Park, her body would probably develop a new mutation, or follow the example of the previous one and simply continue to absorb things

(there are a few ways to interpret this concept like whether or not she can absorb anything or just technology, does she deconstruct and reconstruct things, or do they just attach themselves to her? eg, can she absorb a table and then use the elements from that table to form armour? or would the table fuse itself to her skin so she could use it like a shield? or can she absorb things in their entirety and then have her body spit it back out in it's entirety? I think I like the dematerialising things and rematerialising them as armour and weaponry idea the most)

alternatively if she took the treatment while still connected to the suit, she would risk getting sick like Danny as the physical ectoplasmic particles of the suit she's absorbed are piggybacking the cells in her body, but unlike Danny, it would be possible to eventually break down and destroy the suit with a higher dosage and longer treatment, but it would cause a lot of collateral damage in the process, not killing her but making her really really sick, and possibly damaging her body permanently, it would be a pointless risk when she can simply remove the suit herself before getting the treatment

so yeah that would be a really interesting thing for Val to go through! especially if she asks the Fentons for the treatment without telling them about the suit or understanding how dangerous it will be for her, leading to Danny finally having to reveal that he knows who she is and that she has this suit and it's what's making her so sick

oddly enough, I also think this medication is more dangerous to halfas than it is to ghosts, it would destroy ectoplasmic matter at touch but it actually takes a little time for it to break it down, so it would be like throwing a mild form of acid on a ghost, it would only do some superficial damage, you'd have to dunk them in a vat of the stuff and leave them there for a while to destroy them completely, it would be more effective for torture than murder, ghosts also don't have a circulatory system like humans so injecting a ghost would only damage them at the injection site, meaning it wouldn't be any more effective than a shot from an ordinary ecto-gun, unless you managed to inject it right into the ghost's core, THAT would deadly, but also incredibly difficult as that's the most protected part of their body and contains the most dense, solid ectoplasm

[oriigami]

see hope rise with the tide

[In which Jinbe goes to check in on Arlong, and finds some things that need to be set right. Canon divergence. Read it on AO3 here.]

“It’s too quiet,” Aladine says, and he’s right. 

Cocoyashi Village is too quiet. 

It’s a port village on a midsized island. It should be bustling with life, or at least populated; there should be trading ships in the bay, citizens walking the streets. Instead, it may as well be a ghost town. The Sun Pirates’ ship is the only one visible all along the coastline, and only the occasional hints of movement visible through closed windows give away that anyone lives here at all. All the shades are drawn. 

There is something sinking, slow and heavy, in Jinbe’s chest.

“Are you sure you want to go alone?” Aladine asks, his voice unreadable. 

Jinbe hadn’t planned on coming here for a confrontation. He hadn’t planned on much of anything at all, really. He’d only come in the first place because he’d happened across Arlong’s latest wanted poster in the paper and been struck by- something. Curiosity? Concern? 

(Fear?)

Now, though, looking at the shuttered windows and the barren streets, he doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t want to know what happened here, not really, but his life has rarely been a matter of what he wants. 

“I am,” he says, stepping down onto the shore, and it comes out as a sigh. “I shouldn’t be long.” 

Whatever he finds here, he knows, will be his responsibility. 

The walk through Cocoyashi’s silent streets feels longer than it is, and every footstep against the dirt roads is too loud in the dead quiet. He catches flickers of movement, now and then, through windows and doors. There are people in this town- many of them, even. And they’re all hiding. From him. 

JInbe’s visited many human cities and towns, all up and down the Grand Line. He’s been met with disgust, with scorn, with stony indifference, and weathered them all, but none hold a candle to the kind of frozen terror that grips this town. It’s a relief when he leaves the silent houses behind, even though he can still feel the eyes on his back. 

With every footstep he draws nearer to the too-familiar tower, looming over the landscape, and with every footstep he wonders. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find when he reaches the concrete walls that surround Arlong’s compound, doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find when he steps through the open gates. 

What he finds is a child. 

The girl is underfed and rangy, short orange hair unwashed and skirt torn. There’s a bruise rising over one of her eyes, livid and purple. She freezes when she notices him, and he sees her eyes flicker to the brand on his chest and linger there for a heartbeat before she smiles, horrible and empty, and he knows that smile. 

“If you’re looking for Arlong, he’s inside,” she says, pointing at the monstrous building. Jinbe doesn’t look away from her, from the bruise over her eye. She can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen. Her fingers are worn ragged and raw. As he watches, a drop of blood drips to the ground. 

A girl, with reddish hair and exhausted eyes and a ragged, forced smile, and it’s Koala but it’s not. 

“What happened to your hands?” he asks, and it comes out too loud, too angry.

She flinches almost unnoticeably, tucks her arms behind her back and takes a step back. The little spot of blood is still far too red against the flat grey concrete. “Nothing.” 

He swallows back the rage that wants to come (he’s not angry at her but she doesn’t know that, he has to remember she doesn’t know that). He tries to remember what had worked with Koala, instead: slow movements, soft words. 

He kneels down, slow as he can make it, bringing himself down to her level. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises, and the words taste bitter and ashy in his mouth. “What’s your name?” 

“…Nami,” she says after a long beat. She’s watching him like she doesn’t know what to make of him, like she’s waiting for the trap. For the blow, he realizes after a moment, and something twists in his stomach. 

“Nami,” he says, “I’m Jinbe.” And again, “I’m not going to hurt you. How old are you?” 

“Thirteen,” she says, quieter. Younger than Koala must be, now. 

He nods. “And what’re you doing here?” 

She hesitates for a moment, and then she tugs her arm around to show him her shoulder, and the ground drops out from under him. The same sharp-edged sigil flying from Arlong’s tower is written on her skin in hard, cruel lines of ink, and Jinbe knows a brand when he sees one, and he is going to be sick. 

“I’m a member of Arlong’s crew,” she says, and she’s still smiling but her voice is shaky like she’s about to cry. “I’m his mapmaker.” 

It’s Koala but it’s not because it’s so much worse- 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh.” 

-because this is his fault. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s not nearly enough, it’ll never be enough- “I’m so sorry.” 

She’s still staring at him, but she isn’t smiling anymore, and that’s better, he thinks. 

“You’re safe now, alright?” he says, and tries to keep his voice gentle through the fury boiling in his chest, because she deserves that much at least. He’s never been good at gentle, not truly, but right now he cannot be anything less. “I promise. Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore.” 

“Is,” she says, and then swallows hard, and edges a step away from him. “That’s not fair.” 

It’s true, he knows, but not in the way she means it; she’s thirteen, and there’s a brand on her shoulder and her fingers are bleeding and her eyes are heavy with mistrust, and none of this is fair. “I’m not trying to trick you,” he says. “Arlong is my responsibility. I’m sorry I didn’t come here to put an end to this sooner.” 

There’s something breaking in her eyes, in the twist of her mouth. “You-?” 

“I’m sorry,” Jinbe says again, because there’s nothing else to say. 

“I- the village,” she says, voice sharpening, going half-desperate, throwing caution to the wind. “He’s gonna, he’s gonna hurt them, if he gets mad, he’s gonna hurt my sister-”

(Not me, not a single thought of he’ll hurt me, if you anger him; only the village, only my sister, and Jinbe’s heart breaks and breaks and breaks.) 

“He won’t,” Jinbe says, because looking at her, now, he knows he’ll die before he lets that happen. “I swear on my life I won’t let him.” 

Something crumples in her face, then, and her shoulders start to tremble, and then she’s sobbing like the child she is, rubbing at her eyes with raw and bloody hands as fat tears roll down her cheeks and splatter to the concrete. She cries like Koala used to, like she’s desperately trying to swallow back her tears, keep herself quiet, keep herself safe. 

Jinbe’s hands twitch at his sides, because- he should do something, say something, but he doesn’t want to make this any worse. He doesn’t want to hurt her any more. There’s nothing he can do but wait until she cries herself dry, and he can do that much for her, at least. 

And then the doors of Arlong Park crash open, and a voice, sharp and slithering and all-too-familiar, snarls, “What’s that fucking racket, Nami?” 

Nami’s whole body tenses up all at once, and she claps her hands to her mouth as if to silence herself. Arlong- older, angrier, but still so recognizably Jinbe’s little brother that it hurts- stomps out of his wretched palace, and Jinbe immediately steps sideways to place himself between him and Nami, shielding her at his back. 

The sky is clouded over, and Nami is still choking on tears behind him, muffled and broken, and the flag overhead snaps in the wind, and Jinbe hates. 

Arlong’s eyes land on him. They widen.

“Jinbe?” he says. 

“Arlong,” Jinbe replies, and lets all of the rage that he’s been struggling to contain throughout his conversation with Nami bubble up and over into his voice, lets it fill his eyes with lightning. “Explain yourself.”

Jinbe came here hoping he wouldn’t have to fight his brother, and now he might have to kill him. 

A flicker-flash of something that might be fear crosses Arlong’s face; he’s seen Jinbe angry before, many times, perhaps more than anyone else still living, but this is different. They both know it’s different. Did Arlong put that bruise over her eye, he wonders, or did he just not stop whoever did? Did he laugh? 

Arlong’s face hardens, after a moment. “What’s there to explain?” he snaps back, defiant as he’s always been. “I’ve built a place where our brothers can live in the sun as they deserve. What are you going here? What have you accomplished? Come crawling back to join me, finally?” 

“Did you hit her?” Jinbe asks, and his voice is so flat and cold with fury he barely recognizes it. 

Arlong blinks, looking momentarily wrong-footed. “What?” 

“Nami,” Jinbe clarifies, acutely conscious of her ragged, hiccuping breathing at his back. “Were you the one who hit her? You always did think it was funny, with Koala.” 

Arlong stares at him for a moment, and then he laughs, and it should be familiar but instead it’s just grating. “Is that what you’re so upset about? Nami?” He stops laughing, but he’s still grinning. “She’s my crew, Jinbe. I’ll treat her how I want. She chose to join up herself. She’s a brilliant cartographer.” 

“She’s a child, Arlong!” Jinbe is shouting, now, couldn’t stop himself if he tried, and he can see other faces in the doors, in the windows, drawn by the noise. Some of them he knows, has sailed with, fought with, laughed with. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to look any of them in the eyes again. “You branded a child!” 

“A human child,” Arlong sneers, his voice thick with disdain, with hatred, and Jinbe takes two strides forward and punches him into the ground hard enough to shatter the concrete. Behind him, Nami makes a tiny, shocked noise. 

For a moment, the plaza is silent, but for Jinbe’s heavy breathing and the sound of Arlong spitting gravel. Arlong lifts his head, slow and painful, and Jinbe doesn’t flinch from the seething betrayal in his eyes. 

“So that’s how it is?” Arlong hisses, clawing himself to his feet, spitting blood, red red red as the blood dripping from Nami’s fingers. “Traitor. You’d side with the human scum over your own brother?” 

“You betrayed everything Fisher Tiger stood for,” Jinbe snarls. “And you call me the traitor?” 

“They killed him!” Arlong howls, and the old pain in his voice is something Jinbe knows well, something he’s carried in his chest for years. “She killed him!” 

“She is innocent!” 

“She’s filth, and she’s mine, and I’ll do whatever I want with her!” Arlong bites out. 

And Jinbe knows, he knows, he knows what happens when people become things, because he’s known Tiger, Koala, Aladine. He’s seen that damage, sat up at night hearing the echoes of those nightmares. 

“You sound like the Dragons,” Jinbe snarls out, all the disgust of the revelation in his voice. “Tiger would be sick.” 

He sees the words hit, because Arlong’s eyes widen, just for a moment, before they harden again, defiant to the last, and maybe there is no saving him, not anymore. Maybe everything that was good in Jinbe’s brother died when Fisher Tiger did, and he doesn’t know this person he’s facing now at all. But that’s wrong, too, he knows it’s wrong; the truth he has to face is that maybe Arlong has always been this, and Jinbe has always been blind. 

Arlong bares his bloodied teeth and lunges, and Jinbe’s fist and all the grief and guilt and rage behind it catch him in the chest. Bones crack, and blood splatters, and Arlong hits the wall with a shattering crunch. 

This time, he doesn’t get up. 

Quiet falls.

Arlong’s crew are all present now, drawn out by the crashing sounds of the fight, faces Jinbe knows and faces he doesn’t. They’re all watching him with wide eyes, expressions that range from shock to fear to anger. None move, so Jinbe ignores them for the moment. He’ll need to deal with them, he knows, and he will, and with Arlong, too, but there is someone more important than both, first. 

He turns to Nami. 

She’s still frozen in place, staring past him, bloody fists clenched at her sides, lips parted, eyes fixed unmoving and unblinking on Arlong’s still form. “Nami,” he says. She doesn’t respond. 

“Nami,” he says again, and it’s a moment before she can tear her eyes away to glance up at him. “Do you live here?” 

She stares at him for a moment before she seems to find her voice. “I- I have a room,” she manages, and she sounds so young. “…It’s not home.” 

“Alright,” he says. The anger, as fast and chokingly intense as it had come, is ebbing away just as suddenly in the face of the shell-shock in her eyes, leaving only tired old grief. “Why don’t you go collect your things, and then I’ll take you home, wherever that is.” 

For a moment she looks like she’s going to cry again. “…Okay.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?” 

She shakes her head, and swipes at her eyes, and then hurries across the plaza to the doors of Arlong Park. She pauses, for a moment, as she passes Arlong’s body. As Jinbe watches, she spits on his face, murmurs something he can’t make out before ducking through the open doors. The watching fishmen let her pass without a word; they’ll do nothing, he knows, with him watching them. 

Jinbe is already so tired, wrung out and exhausted by anger and grief, but his duties are not over yet. (Sometimes it seems like they never will be.) 

“You’re going to leave this island,” he tells Arlong’s crew, and he’s not shouting anymore, but his voice echoes across the silent plaza nonetheless, heavy with the disappointment he knows cuts worse than knives. Even if he doesn’t know all of them, they all know who he is, and they know now where he stands, and his words have weight. “Leave Arlong for me to deal with. I don’t care what you do from here, but never come near here ever again.” 

He sees Chuu, Kuroobi, Hachi. They were there for Tiger’s death, all of them. His crewmates, once; his brothers, once.

“You should be better than this,” he says, and thinks about the blood on Nami’s fingers and the brand on her shoulder, and feels nothing but tired and angry and sad. “We need to be better than this.” 

Nami isn’t inside for long. She emerges a few minutes later, with nothing but a small bag over her shoulder and a carefully-folded piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand, and hurries to Jinbe’s side like she wants to put as much distance between herself and the monstrous building as possible. It warms something in his hurting chest, that she sees him as safe.

“Ready to go?” he asks her.

She’s still staring at Arlong’s prone body like she can’t process it, but she nods, jerky and uneven, and so he sets a careful hand on her narrow shoulder and guides her away through the gates. She’s so small. Jinbe has been cruel before, in his life, cruel and brutal, and he isn’t proud of it, but there’s a world of difference between brutality in combat and the kind of cruelty that darkens a child’s eye. 

They leave Arlong Park behind, and the tension doesn’t start to run out of her shoulders until the road has risen up behind them and the high concrete walls are out of sight. 

“What’s going to happen to him?” she asks after a long, long moment. Her voice is raspy from crying. 

“I’ll drop him at a marine base,” Jinbe says, and the betrayal in the words cuts like glass, but the alternative is to kill Arlong himself, and even after everything, he’s still not brave enough for that. “From there, he’ll either be sent to Impel Down or executed.” 

She swallows, nods, staring down at the dirt road. “Good,” she says, and the anger in her voice is something he knows down to his bones. And then, after a beat, more tentative: “…He said you were his brother.” 

“He is,” Jinbe says, and it comes out as a sigh, because even after everything, Arlong is still his brother and always will be. “He was my crewmate, too, once.” 

She’s quiet, and then, “I have a sister. Nojiko.” 

He remembers. He’s gonna hurt my sister- “Older or younger?” 

“Older. She’s fifteen.” 

“She must be worried, hm?” he says. “Older siblings always worry.” 

She laughs, a little, and it’s a ragged, guilty sound, but it’s a laugh, and that’s a victory, if only a small one. “She does. All the time. She tries to act like she doesn’t.”

He should have come sooner. He can’t stop thinking about it, about what might have been avoided if he had. He’d wanted so badly to think the best of Arlong, to believe whatever he was doing couldn’t have been too bad, not when he’d borne witness to Tiger’s last moments, not when he’d had Hachi and the others with him, not when he was still Jinbe’s little brother. 

Older siblings always worry. He should have worried more. If he had, maybe Nami’s sister wouldn’t have had to.

They reach a fork in the road, the main path continuing on towards the town while a smaller, less well-worn trail branches off towards the coast, and Nami stops. 

“Nami?” 

“Can we,” she says, and swallows, “before we go back to Cocoyashi. Can we go somewhere else, first?” 

“Of course,” he says, and she steps off the road and leads the way down the trail. It twists and winds its way through a copse of trees and up a low rise of hill, and Nami ducks the low branches and steps over the roots like she’s made this trek a thousand times before. 

The path emerges onto a cliff, overlooking the ocean, and on the cliff there is a grave. 

Jinbe thinks, oh, and does not follow past the tree line. This is something he will not intrude upon.  

Nami takes a few steps more, and then falls gracelessly to her knees before the rough wooden cross. She digs her abused fingers into the grass, bows her head. Tears fall, glittering in the sunlight, splattering to the ground below. 

“Bellemere-san,” she says, and she’s smiling, and it’s real, the first real smile he’s seen from her, and that alone is worth all the pain and grief and fury weighing on Jinbe’s shoulders. “Bellemere-san, it’s over. It’s over. It’s-” 

She cuts herself off, sniffling, and wipes her eyes, and she’s smiling, and it’s real. 

“I’m free.”

[fatesdeepdive]

Entry 6: Dicklips has a Point

Chapter 5: Mother

After a few days in Hoshido, Corrin is finally getting used to the massive emotional baggage that is her backstory. Mikoto invites Corrin to sit on the Hoshidan throne, which is infused with the magic of the First Dragons and destroys magic that alters the body or mind. Mikoto hopes that it will allow Corrin to regain her memories. Before Corrin can sit on the throne and become king of the Westeros or whatever, Mikoto’s strategist Yukimura enters. He looks like a nerd, but I suppose that’s better than being a steampunk MCR cover band dropout like Iago.

The Hoshidan siblings enter and Mikoto tells Corrin that they’re having a ceremony to quash spy rumors and formally reintroduce Corrin into the family. We’re properly introduced to Corrin’s other brother, Takumi. He’s assigned to show Corrin around town and is grumpy about it, because his defining character trait is being a dick. As Takumi and the princesses leave, Ryoma muses that he feels uneasy and predicts that something bad will happen soon.

The gang tours a Hoshidan marketplace. It’s so vibrant, and colorful, and full of life. I haven’t been talking much about this game’s music because I’m not a music guy, but I love the upbeat theme they use for this scene. It feels like something out of Okami and matches Hoshido’s idealized feudal Japan aesthetic perfectly.

Corrin points out that Shirasagi is way better than the Nohrian fort she was held prisoner in for years. Takumi rants that he doesn’t trust Corrin, saying Just don’t get too comfortable…SISTER. I know he’s supposed to come across as a dick, but he has a point. Corrin’s an enemy soldier who invaded Hoshido and killed a dozen people less than a week ago. It doesn’t matter that they share DNA, Corrin should be treated with suspicion.

Takumi also acts suspicious to Azura and says she can’t call him by his first name, which is dumb. What’s she supposed to do, call him Dicklips? Corrin points out that Dicklips is being an idiot and Dicklips tells her to shut up. And really, he is being an idiot. Either hate Corrin for growing up in Nohr, or hate Azura for having Nohrian DNA. Either nature matters, or nurture matters. You can’t have it both ways.

Then again, Azura and Corrin will totally join Nohr and try to destroy Hoshido if we chose the conquest path, so maybe Dicklips has a point.

Corrin tells Sakura that she’s friends with a girl around Sakura’s age, presumably Elise. If the coin flip had gone the other way and I was playing as boy Corrin, Sakura would have asked if Elise is Corrin’s girlfriend. And that’s ridiculous. Can you imagine, Corrin dating their teenage sister? That’s messed up. Good thing that isn’t a thing that happens in this game.

We go to the plaza for the festival. Side note, all shots of Corrin and Mikoto in the festival are positioned so that Corrin’s face is covered by something, like a man wearing an oversized hat, for instance. This is because Corrin is customizable and that means the game can’t show their face. They can show the clearly male body model, but not their face. Awakening had Robin wear a hood to get around this problem, but who needs fashion choices when you can just censor the main character’s face like it’s Austin Powers’s mojo.

While Corrin’s standing next to Mikoto, a weird ghost man wearing a hood walks to the front of the crowd and holds out his arm. Red smoke starts coming off Ganglari and an eye opens up on its hilt, because it is very clearly a cursed sword. Ganglari flies over to the man and he stabs it into the ground, creating a massive purple explosion ball. The sword explodes and Mikoto jumps in front of Corrin to shield her from the shrapnel. As she dies, Mikoto asks Corrin if she’s okay.

Fire Emblem has a lot of dead parent scenes, and I honestly think this is the best. Marcella Lentz-Pope’s scream when Mikoto dies is phenomenal. Mikoto begging Corrin to be alright and dying with a smile on her face is beautiful.

Ryoma cuts down the hooded man but his cloak just falls to the ground, leaving no body. Corrin screams, her hair glowing and her eyes white, physically holding back the pain as waves of energy burst from her body. In a moment, Corrin is gone. In her place is a dragon.

I really like Corrin’s dragon form. It looks so inhuman, more like a machine than a traditional dragon. It really gets across that Corrin has completely lost any semblance of humanity she had as she falls into this pit of despair.

The level proper starts up as an army of dark mages and mercenaries storm into the ruined plaza. Their leader is the ghostly man from before. Interestingly, he’s a swordmaster, a Hoshidan exclusive class that he shares with Ryoma. This level adds Sakura and Azura to our team and gives Corrin an absolutely monstrous boost to her stats, fitting for her rage dragon form.

Sakura

Corrin’s shy, gentle Hoshidan younger sister. She’s a Shrine Maiden (Cleric) and wields healing staves. Her personal skill lowers the damage taken by nearby allies. Her design is fine; I don’t really have any thoughts on it. She seems to be going for this “cute shy healer” personality, which isn’t bad, but Fire Emblem has done it a dozen times before.

Azura

Azura is our Dancer...I mean, Songstress. She sucks at fighting, but allows other units to attack twice, which is really helpful in battle. Her personal skill heals nearby allies at the start of their turns. Her design, despite its bright colors, does a good job conveying how calm and mysterious she is. Azura is an enigma. She clearly knows more than she lets on, but currently seems content to just follow Corrin around.

All of the mercenaries in this chapter wield special, dragon killing swords, which would be a problem, if Corrin didn’t have as much defense as the rest of the party put together. This chapter boils down to letting dragon Corrin smash everyone while Sakura, Azura, and Kaze provide support. Ryoma attempts to take on the ghost man, but is defeated. Then Corrin fucking stomps his translucent ass and saves the day.

Corrin continues rampaging and Azura begins singing LITAA. Her necklace, the one from the title screen, starts glowing. Ryoma runs in to protect Azura, but Azura blasts him away with a pillar of water, which is a thing that she can do apparently.

Dragon Corrin freaks out at the music and slashes Azura across the chest. Azura keeps singing and Corrin attempts to strangle her to death. Azura tells Corrin, Kill me if you want, but do it as yourself, which is a fantastic line that shakes Corrin out of her madness.

Corrin turns back into a human and has a flashback of Garon’s murdering Sumeragi and kidnapping her. Garon says You are my child now and grabs baby Corrin, which is so creepy its comical.

Corrin apologizes to Azura, saying she’s disgusted with herself. Ryoma explains that both royal families have dragon blood, the Nohrians from the Dusk Dragon and the Hoshidans from the Dawn Dragon. Corrin looks out over the destroyed town, a town full of innocent people destroyed by Nohr.

Ryoma points out that, because Garon gave Corrin an evil bomb sword, everything must have been his plan. Cool plan, by the way. Let’s see if I have it straight:

1: Give Corrin a bomb sword.

2: Have her commit an act of war.

3: Have Hans try to murder Corrin.

4: Hope he fails.

5: Hope the Hoshidans bring Corrin to their Queen, instead of imprisoning her for being an enemy soldier.

6: Have ghost soldiers invade Hoshido and take the sword from Corrin.

6: Cursed sword explodes, killing Mikoto and destroying her mind control barrier.

I mean, sure, there are probably simpler ways to kill Mikoto, ways that don’t involve praying that Hans fucks up and fails to kill Corrin. Garon could have, I don’t know, had the ghost soldiers kill Mikoto. Maybe their existence is tied to Ganglari, but that’s never actually stated, and the fact that they stick around and kill people after Ganglari explodes makes that questionable.

You know how, at the end of Naruto, Kishimoto had the villains reveal that they were behind every bad thing that happened in the series, and how it didn’t make sense and was dumb and convoluted? I’m getting Naruto vibes from this chapter.

Takumi blames Corrin for Mikoto’s death. And I mean, he has a point. Corrin’s the one who brought the clearly cursed sword her war criminal father gave her with her. Azura tells Takumi that it’s fine if he doesn’t trust her, but it's wrong for him to distrust Corrin, because Corrin is his blood. And that’s fucking stupid. Fire Emblem is filled with characters with evil relatives. Soren, Guinivere, Edelgard, Robin, the list goes on. Shit, there are evil blood relatives within this game.

Corrin suggests leaving and Yukimura tells her that Mikoto wouldn’t have wanted that and that Mikoyo knew she would die soon. He also mentions that there may be darker forces than Garon at work. Yukimura also points us towards a statue destroyed in the blast, a statue containing Yato, a diving golden sword that is said to be the key to peace. Yato flies up and over to Corrin.

Kaze runs in and reports a massive Nohrian force assembles at the border and the family marches off to war, with Ryoma declaring that he will not show any mercy. Corrin decides to follow Ryoma, in hopes of stopping the war. Azura tells Corrin to calm down, because getting into a fight could cause her to lose control and turn into a dragon again. Spoiler alert, this is literally the only chapter where Corrin loses control, because screw interesting characterization.

Azura gives Corrin her necklace, which turns out to be a dragonstone. Dragonstones and manaketes, people who can turn into dragons, are not new to Fire Emblem. Manaketes are normally uncomfortably young girls. Corrin is the first and currently the only manakete main lord. What’s more, Corrin is unique in their ability to wield both swords and dragonstones. It fits with the duality motif.

The necklace allows Corrin to control her dragon form, which is a bit of a disappointment. Corrin losing control and destroying stuff in this animalistic rage was really interesting characterization that is never seen after this chapter.

Azura decides to follow Corrin, because Corrin makes her feel safe. Apparently.

This chapter was really, really, good. Mikoto’s death was heartbreaking and Corrin going apeshit was some really strong character work. I forgot how absolutely terrifying Corrin’s transformation scene is. That said, this chapter hammers the final nail in the coffin for this story being morally grey. There is absolutely no reason to side with Nohr after this chapter, except for loyalty to the Nohrian royals.

At the start of the next chapter, we’ll choose our side in this war. And, not to tip my hand, but I don’t exactly think it’ll be a hard choice.

[yukizakii]

ghosts ch. 1

They were both broken people. Broken people didn’t fix each other, as the pieces would never quite perfectly together. But they understood each other. They were able to see the beauty within one other of being incomplete. --

fall, 1870. The Boshin War is over. Yukimura Chizuru returns to her childhood home in Tokyo to learn how to live again. Nagakura Shinpachi has escaped with his life under a new name.

The world is cruel, but it works in mysterious ways to bring their paths together again.

(aka a hakuoki fanfic | shinpachi x chizuru centric; post hijikata bad end) 

xposted on AO3

— one.

“Ow!”

The clay of the teacup burned hot, much hotter than Chizuru had expected, and her fingers instinctively drew away from the heat. The cup slipped from her grasp and smashed into scattered shards onto the ground, the oolong tea that had once been contained forming little rivers in-between the cracks of the stone pavement. A few droplets beaded onto her kimono, but she quickly brushed them away with the back of her hand; she had washed all of her silks just yesterday, and she hardly wanted to have this one stain.

She sighed. It was probably her twentieth sigh of the day so far, and the sun had just barely moved into the sky. Every time she let out another heavy breath, she could almost hear Okita’s voice teasing her—What are you sighing for, Chizuru-chan? Don’t you know that I might have to kill you for looking so unhappy?

But he wasn’t here, and neither were any of her old friends.

Chizuru was alone, and lost.

Stop, Chizuru. Don’t think like that. Negativity was no stranger to her now. She could barely even go through the motions of her daily tea routine without thoughts and voices from the past lingering in the back of her mind.

Each morning she woke up to felt like night, a darkness shrouding over mind like the shadows of the weeping willows in Kyoto. Heavy as it was, she still forced herself to get up from her futon and face each day. She had to live, because as much as she sometimes wished that it was all but a dream, it was reality. She had to live, for those who didn’t.

You have to live, like they wanted you to.

She reached for the broken pieces of the clay cup, but a jagged piece slipped through her palm and slashed through the skin. Chizuru let out an instinctive gasp in pain and dropped the broken pottery again, watching as the blood welled from her hand and dripped over her arm. The bright red droplets struck her with a sense of deja vu, and suddenly she was transported back years before. There she was in front of the well at the Shinsengumi compound washing dishes when she had cut her finger in a similar way, and Heisuke, Heisuke-kun, had been confronted with his Rasetsu bloodlust for the first time.

But it didn’t just stop there. The sight and smell of her blood continued to reveal a torrent of memories that washed over her with a vivid brightness—memories that she had been trying to repress every day. That alley in Kyoto during a snowfall, the smell of blood and the high-pitched laughter of a monster in the air. The brilliant scarlet that seemed to flood the streets of Kyoto after Kinmon no Hen, mixed with the smell of smoke and ash from the fires.

That flowering cherry blossom tree in Hakodate, the spiderweb of blood across her hand transforming into a river that flowed into the ground from a man’s body.

“Look, Hijikata-san. It’s the Flag of Sincerity that everyone worked so hard to raise.”

—

She had no idea how long she stayed under that beautiful, cursed cherry blossom tree. Seconds, minutes, hours—time meant nothing to her anymore. The only thing that she knew of was that at that moment, he was gone. As the war raged on, Chizuru had felt herself becoming alarmingly numb to loss. She had become almost accustomed to seeing the dead lay on the ground through each city they trekked through, and the snippets of conversations she overheard no shook her like they used to. A hundred of our men, lost at Bonari Pass seemed like normal war talk now. But being surrounded by death and devastation didn’t make it any easier though. Losing her father, her friends, and her family had pierced through her heart, and she couldn’t think of a night that she hadn’t cried herself to sleep for the past few months.

Losing Heisuke and Sannan had broken her for days—she still felt partially responsible for the creation of the Ochimizu, and it pained her to know that she would never laugh with Heisuke again, or see Sannan’s cunning smile. Okita and Kondou had felt like some kind of sick joke from God, the two of them leaving this world in ways that were unfit for the two strongest warriors she knew. Harada, the man who had a spirit so loud and noble that somehow could make everyone smile, was now someone she would never hear from again. Every one of her friends’ deaths wrecked her heart open in ways that she didn’t know it could bleed. But losing him was different. She had held Hijikata’s body in her arms long after his eyes closed and the last traces of warmth left him, her tears dripping endlessly down her cheeks and onto his bloodied uniform.

She didn’t know what to do without him.

For the past five years, he had been a constant presence in her life. Chizuru had first come to depend on him for protection and stability; to the girl that had somehow landed into the Shinsengumi headquarters, Hijikata had been downright scary. His steely violet eyes seemed to read straight through her every time he caught her outside of her room, and she felt secondhand fear every time that she saw the way that he tolerated no sort of disobedience from his soldiers and punished those who strayed from the Shinsengumi’s code with injury or worse. But then as those first few months somehow stretched into years, Chizuru’s fear slowly faded and her days and memories began to fill with so many other emotions and experiences with Hijikata. Even though she spent her days with all of the different captains of the Shinsengumi, it was somehow always Hijikata that was by her side when she needed it the most.

Hijikata, who had shielded and fought against Kazama for her, his arm wrapped around her and her kodachi in the other. Hijikata, who was uncharacteristically fussy about his long, beautiful jet-black hair, and had yet allowed her to comb and tie it back while he had worked. Hijikata, who secretly wrote poetry with a smile on his face when no one was looking. Hijikata, who had taken her to a restaurant after a festival in Kyoto, and had paid for what was a surprisingly luxurious meal for what he had gruffly described as “just a thank you, you’ve been a big help”.

Hijikata, who had drank the Ochimizu that her father had created, and gave up his humanity to protect her from Kazama and to stand up for his values.

Their initial relationship as a page and superior had been awkward at best, and trust had been slow to develop. But after 5 years, the realization came to her so suddenly that she had almost fallen over herself: she was in deeply love with him. Her heart ached to always be near him and she loved to hear her name roll off his tongue—secretly, she thought that sounded more beautiful than she had ever heard it said. Chizuru had never had anything more than innocent crushes and dates when she had lived with Kodo in Edo, but her emotions and heart felt so strongly towards this person that she was certain that this was love, and a love that she knew would not come easily.

And of course it didn’t, because the man her heart had fallen in love with was like a force of a demon himself. Demon Vice Commander of the Shinsengumi, Hijikata Toshizou. Hijikata Toshizou, who was feared but adored by equally as many. Hijikata who was the talk of the town at times, with his long black hair that he refused to cut and high cheekbones that seemed to only accentuate his piercing gaze. Chizuru knew that he was a handsome man, some even saying he looked as if he had walked out of a wood-block painting, but she found more merit in the Hijikata she knew. His dedication, his resilience, his loyalty, and his love ran deeper than anyone else would ever know.

He had chosen her. And then he had left her.

Memories and concern for Hijikata filled her mind and thoughts endlessly for the months she stayed by herself alone in Sendai. She knew that he had left her in Sendai for her own safety; a young woman had no place in a war after all, but it was maddening. Chizuru knew she was no good on the battlefield and defenseless against a gun, but being left behind crushed her more than she could have ever imagined. She had no idea if she would ever see him again—dead or alive. What had happened to Kondou was something she very well knew could be something that could happen to Hijikata. But once she received the letter from Ootori, she had hastened to Ezo with her heart thudding in her chest with every thought that she was one step closer to seeing Hijikata again. No matter the hurt and pain that lay ahead of them, she knew that she had to be by his side.

And it had been so worth it. For a few months, despite knowing the pain and suffering that lay ahead of them, she had been happier than ever, just to be by his side. From the moment of their reunion, Chizuru was able to see his actions and words in so much more clarity. The bitter hoarseness in his voice when he yelled at his troops was not conveying anger, but worry to please come back alive. His scowl on his face when he worked long nights was not just because he was frustrated to shoulder this burden, but because he didn’t want anyone else to take the fall for the secret messages he was sending. He was the strongest person she had ever met, yet also the kindest and gentlest at the same time as well. In those few short months, Chizuru witnessed all sides of Hijikata and learned just how soft his hands could be on her hair, or the warmth of his embrace during the occasional nights that he did not work until dawn and allowed her to stay in the room with him.

If she could shoulder some of his pain and suffering, Chizuru had thought, then that was enough purpose for her to keep existing. If her blood was truly as powerful as Sanan and Kodo had alluded, then she would use it all and anything else in her power to keep him alive.

But he was gone, and she had failed. Maybe he would survived if she let him drink her dry, but Hijikata Toshizou was never the kind of person who would save himself at the expense of someone else. Makoto, he would say. Sincerity, which was the foundation for the Shinsengumi’s core beliefs. One had to be sincere and true to himself as a warrior and as a man to the end. Hijikata Toshizou had chosen his path. He chose to use his remaining life force to protect her from Kazama, and protect the beliefs that he had loved and carried for so long. He had died a warrior, and she knew that the Shinsengumi and all that he had fought for was finally at rest with him as well.

The two of them had known that this was a possibility from the start; the war was drawing to a close, and they were fighting a losing battle in Hakodate. Chizuru knew from the way Hijikata shook with anger and pain his sleep, or the scowl on his face every time he walked into the room from another meeting. She had always had some hope that maybe, just maybe, they would prevail and the two of them would find a future together.

But there was no place in this world for the two of them.

In a rush of scattered cherry blossoms, another individual had appeared under the tree—Amagiri. Polite as always, the red-haired demon he had greeted her with a formal bow before speaking. Since Kazama had strayed from the way of a demon and had continued to meddle with humans against his Clan warnings, he no longer could be laid to rest with his ancestors. Amagiri had come to bury Kazama’s body—and if Chizuru would like, Hijikata as well. How Amagiri knew that Kazama had died was some Demon logic that Chizuru knew was simply beyond her, but in that moment, she had been oddly relieved. Chizuru had always been a sensible girl, and even in times of crisis, she had a way of forcing herself to function. Even though burying Hijikata was exactly the last thing she wanted at that very moment, this was war. If they did not bury him now, his body would be discovered by troops and dragged out as a trophy to mark the fall of the Shinsengumi. She would have rather herself die than allow that to happen, but there was no way that she alone could have ever found the strength, physical and emotional, to bury him.

So she had let Amagiri dig two graves underneath that beautiful cherry blossom tree to lay both Kazama and Hijikata to rest. At Chizuru’s request, Amagiri dug Hijikata’s grave on the other side of the tree, away from Kazama’s; she knew that he would abhor being buried directly next to the demon he had spent years fighting. She took her final last glance at the man she had loved in the earth—his eyes closed, dark hair framing his face, swords crossed over his body, looking more peaceful and well-rested than she had ever seen him—and then turned away, unable to look as Amagiri completed the burial process.

Chizuru had been so consumed with grief that what happened afterwards was a blur. When she admitted she didn’t have an idea of her next move, Amagiri had simply stated, “It would be unwise to allow a woman to travel alone.” He had accompanied her to Hakodate, where she collected the rest of their personal belongings and relayed the news of Hijikata’s passing to Ootori. They then traveled to Yase, where Osen had been waiting; news of Kazama’s battle against a fake Demon had spread fast in the Demon world, and she had immediately sought to take Chizuru under the protection of the Yase Demon Clan. Chizuru had little memory of the months she spent in Yase; she only remembered grief and sorrow. News of the defeat of the Shogunate army and the rise of the Meiji Restoration flitted into

the Demon village over the next few months, but none of it meant anything to Chizuru. Hijikata was gone. Okita was gone. Heisuke, Sannan, Kondou, Harada…her life as she had known it, and all the people that had made it were gone. She heard nothing about Saito and Nagakura, but it hurt too much to hope. But after a few months of moping and living like a shell, Chizuru decided that she wanted to return to her home in Edo—well, Tokyo, now. She still had a home there, after all, and as kind as Osen and the demon clan of Yase was, it was not her home. So after six long years, Chizuru had finally returned to the old house that she had used to live with her father. Kodo, the man she had thought was her father. It had taken her almost a full two weeks to clean out all of the dust and vermin that had accumulated in the space over almost half a decade, but she had never been one to shy away from hard work. Rather, she had thrown herself into it, desperate for something, anything to do, to keep her mind busy and away from her thoughts. What quite honestly should have been work for two or three, she had completed in an astonishingly short time.

Chizuru had cleaned and changed the house to be more of a modest one fit to her needs; she had sold away most of their belongings, and kept only the essentials of what she needed. In this exchange and cleanup, Chizuru had dug out her women's clothes, but quickly found that many of her old kimonos in her closet no longer fit her—and well, of course they didn’t. She had last been a growing sixteen-year-old girl the last time she had worn them, and now she was a twenty-one year old woman. The hems that had once grazed her feet were now hanging above the ankles, and the silk was tight around her new curves and defined muscle she had developed after years of patrolling and running around Kyoto.

It was a strange and painful reminder that so much had changed.

Crafty as she was, Chizuru had loosened the seams and sewn together some of the cloth to create a couple of kimonos that fit her, so she could finally retire her pale peach hakamashita and hakama into storage. How strange for her to finally fold and lay those clothes away, although quite honestly she should have reduced them to rags. The silk had been patched and restitched over and over with years of wear and tear, but part of herself could not simply bear to toss that part of her life away. Instead, she had neatly folded it up and placed it into a box, next to her tattered Western military uniform. Her kodachi was racked on display in the bedroom, close enough to where she could grab it, but Chizuru sorely hoped that she would never need to touch that blade again.

But what was she doing here in Tokyo? What would she be doing, for the rest of her life? She had no idea. Chizuru knew that her existence and troubles as a female Demon did not end with Kazama’s death; Osen had been sure to warn her of it, and had strongly cautioned her against returning to Tokyo alone. But despite the lack of a clear direction in her future, and the dangers of traveling and living alone, Chizuru knew that she needed some sort of normalcy. She didn't want to think of Demons, of Rasetsu, of Ochimizu, of war and blood and death—she wanted to grieve alone, quietly, away from all that had pained her.

She was here, living and trying to bury her past life behind, but it always seemed to follow her.

She was just here. Existing, living. Drinking tea on her front porch, although her current cup was now smashed to smithereens and the tea was seeping into the hardwood. That painful memory hung heavily on her heart, and she wiped away tears from her face with her unbloodied hand, although the wound was already well on its way to healing. Maybe she would go into the town today to get some new teacups along with her daily groceries for meals; she still had a hard time stomaching food at times, but Chizuru knew she needed to keep her strength up. She wanted to start a garden in the back as well, to save her coin for fresh vegetables for when she needed it. Ootori had paid her well for her time and escape, but she knew it wouldn’t last forever. At some point, she would need to recoup her finances and find work to sustain herself.

But for today, she wanted to be normal. As normal as she could be.

Live, Chizuru.

I am living, Hijikata-san.

Chizuru stood up and stepped outside, tilting her head up to the sky. A slight breeze fanned across her face, and she inhaled the air deep into her lungs. Even though it was well into fall, she thought for the briefest moment, she smelled the sweet scent of cherry blossoms. Maybe today would be a good day.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Ghost Busted || Morgan, Adam, Jasmine, Nell, &Constance

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @walker-journal @halequeenjas @nelllraiser @constancecunningham

SUMMARY: Morgan’s plan to bind Constance gets busted.

CONTAINS: gun use (salt rounds)

Binding a soul wasn’t much more complicated than binding anything else, as it turned out; not in terms of ingredients, at least. Morgan was able to gather the herbs on her own, mostly foraged, to save her pride at the Eye of Newt, but to adhere as closely to the spell instructions, she braved Vera’s judgmental looks for the last few things. Now it was time to take stock and go over the plan one last time before doing the binding. Morgan felt for the bottle in her bag. Still there. As far as she understood it, just about any vessel that could be marked with the right sigils would do, but using any of the tiny jars she had left from her crafting days made her feel uncomfortable. They seemed so small, keeping someone in there just seemed so...unsafe. And what if she could somehow see Constance staring at her through the glass? The thought made Morgan shudder too much, so she got a nice arcane looking, opaque, ceramic jar.

The day was bright, the kind you painted on a greeting card for fall. Morgan turned at the sound of footsteps, not certain how much she should smile, with Jasmine and Adam at least partially on the fence. But this was a net good for everyone. A bottled ghost was going to kill a lot less people and cause a lot less chaos than a free range one. After they did this, she could figure the rest out on her own if it came to it. Morgan offered a small wave. “Uh, hey?” she offered. “Did you...get everything you needed okay?”

Apparently, Nell was the first back from her little monster hunting excursion. In truth, she would have preferred to still be out gathering spell items for many reasons, but the primary one stemmed from the little guilt monster that was gnawing away at her stomach. Now that she’d talked about exorcising Constance at the first chance possible with both Jasmine and Adam, it was emotionally difficult to sit here and pretend as if everything were still going according to plan, sitting next to Morgan as if nothing had changed and she would still get her revenge. But it wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. There’d been multiple occasions in which she’d had to make decisions that her friends wouldn’t like for the benefit of themselves and others. Still...that didn’t mean it got any easier. Nell could only hope that Morgan might be forgiving in the long run, and still want something to do with her at the end of the day. “Yeah, I got them,” she answered as she held up her trophies. “Are the others back, yet?” Taki, her Ovinikk familiar, hadn't been far behind- looking proud as anything while he carried a few grathered herbs between his teeth.

Nell kept her response short, not wanting to say much else when she was caught up in wondering whether or not her and Morgan’s friendship would make it to see the end of the week. “I’m just gonna look over the stuff again, too.” Then she gingerly plopped herself onto the ground next to a basket of herbs, muttering to herself about their quality and picking through them with a careful hand as a means of keeping herself busy, and hopefully safe from too much conversation.

Chickcharney feathers, a catalyst for the curse. The larynx of an Aravo to bind their voice. The pelt of an Aufhocker to weigh them down to earth. A heart burst by a Carach’s fractoxtin to remind them of heartbreak. The exoskeleton of a Dearoile, to echo their life’s pain. A bone from a Gashadokura slain a century ago, to rekindle memories of fleshly deprivation A Valravn skull medallion, a symbol of death as the inescapable devourer.

Adam entered and began to place these cheery trophies of several weeks hunting in their assigned places, thoughts heavy with the twisted moral balance of what was about to transpire.

There had been no doubt in her mind that Jasmine was doing what was necessary. Whatever grudge Morgan had against this ghost mattered very little in the big scheme of things. Her ingredients had been more or less easy to gather. A mix of herbs and different salts. She was never without iron flakes and rods either. Once she had made it back to their meeting spot, she mentally began envisioning where she could lay out a salt circle. It wasn’t entirely necessary for a typical banishment, but it made things easier. Even if she had any intention of playing along with this whole binding the ghost until Morgan found a way to torture her, she’d be taking these same precautions. It all lined up with what they were doing here, just instead of Nell doing the binding, she’s simply banish Constance. Whether or not she deserved worse would be up to whatever cosmic power she faced after being thrown out of this plane. “It sounds like we’re ready then,” she said as she contemplated laying out a circle. She turned to Nell with a knowing look in her eye, “So, when are we doing this? Did we want to go ahead and knock this out before anyone else is hurt?

Constance didn’t feel at home in the manor. The walls reminded her too much of the ones she had dusted and cleaned for the Bachmans, and the environment was so unmoving save for spare objects that were fiddled with and tossed by spirits. Constance preferred to take them out to the woods where the oaks grew tall and remembered everything, even her. Or to the lake, veiled in mist and shining waters. “And did you know!” She cried, turning to Nancy trailing behind her in strange garb that had come into fashion after her death. “I taught her everything she knew about magic. Her mother was a beastly woman with no talent in her right fingernail, doing charms I had managed practically with my intuition. I gave Agnes the keys to the kingdom of the gods, which makes me the reason that tiny, ugly cow Morgan could tap into any of her magic at all. But, oh! The raptures we would find in these woods. They weren’t half so thick, and we felt so fearless and bold hiding here and--”

The sound of other voices made her stop and drift up into the trees. She had gotten better at this now, having so many ghosts to practice with and help her along. Most of the faces were familiar. Morgan, of course, tramping her muddy boots through her woods. The girl from the summoning. The boy from the classroom. And then some other woman, but if she was in league with the others, then she couldn’t be any more trustworthy. She hovered in the soggy gold and red of autumn leaves still hanging on, knowing that Morgan could see her always. There were strange things being passed, salt, herbs, some runes she recognized, and a jar.

“Those cruel, treasonous fiends,” Constance hissed. Did Blanche know about this? Was she just biding her time, placating Constance until this very moment, when she might be trapped forever? Or until such time as a suitable punishment could be given? As if being stripped of her liberty, of everything but her consciousness wasn’t punishment enough. “Nancy,” Constance whispered. “You said we could play a game today, right?”

Morgan wrapped Nell into a quick hug. “Thanks, Nell,” she said quietly. “I’m glad you’re doing better.” She nodded to the others, smiling tensely. They weren’t thrilled to be here, that much was obvious, and she wasn’t sure if any kind of thanks would smack with passive aggression she didn’t intend. “It looks like we’re gonna be all set, and the town is going to get a lot safer once we’re done and she’s all tucked a-- fuck. Nell, get down!”

Morgan grabbed the young witch and shielded her with her body as she saw Constance come soaring out of the trees. And this time, she wasn’t alone. Her iron rod was at her hip, she could give her a good whack or two and be done, but she couldn’t leave Nell vulnerable, and there was Adam and Jasmine to consider. “Okay, uh--new plan!” She screeched. “We get some salt lines down and nobody dies today, how about that?”

With the waking nightmares gone, the ghosts had also returned to their normal state of invisible. As it were Nell would have had not a single clue that Constance or Nancy had appeared if it weren’t for Morgan and Taki. Blindly following Morgan’s command, she ducked— hoping that whatever she was dodging might simply fly over her. It took a moment for Nell to make the connection between salt and spirit, and then she could only assume that it was Constance who had come for them. “Is it her? Constance?” she asked both Jasmine and Morgan. Taki’s fur had bristled into an enormous ball of fluff the moment the ghosts had appeared, hissing and spitting in disgust as the spirits approached. Remembering that last time Taki had met Constance at the ghost’s summoning and how it had ended with the familiar in the pet hospital, Nell instinctively picked up the dog-sized cat. Shit- they needed salt like Morgan had said. Focusing her magic for a split second, Nell Summoned the table salt from home, a blue canister blinking into existence in her hand. Then another appeared in her other palm, and Nell silently thanked Bea for sometimes buying in bulk. “Here!” she called before tossing the salt container to Adam. Hastily, she began to draw her salt circle, first using it to encompass the spell ingredients. Losing them would be too much of a set back to risk.

In another town, if people just started freaking out for no visible reason and tossed him salt, Adam might have questions, concerns even. However Adam was becoming accustomed to weird improv game that invisible spookums entailed that he just caught the salt contained and got to work putting circles around the important stuff.  

This was all happening more quickly than Jasmine could have anticipated. As a familiar chill ran over her, she felt her whole body tense. No, not now. Not while Nell was here and she didn’t even have a proper circle yet on the ground. This was less than ideal, but she could make do without the circle if it was just a simple banishment. Minimal distractions would be needed so she had to trust Nell and Adam could hold down the fort if Morgan threw a fit about what she had to do. Once she actually caught a glimpse of the ghost, her mouth dropped. Even if she never planned on going through with the torture, it was still shocking that she wanted to torture an actual kid. “Seriously,” she shot a glare at Morgan, “How old is this ghost? Sixteen? You want to torture a teenager?”

She shook her head and didn’t need any further motivation to push forward with the exorcism as planned. It hardly mattered to her whether or not Morgan approved of the decision. “Nell, stay back and keep everyone away,” she directed as she took her place in the room. A haphazard salt circle was laid out on the floor and she stood directly outside as she began the familiar incantation she followed for banishment rituals. The air was whipping around them, but she knew she could do this. It was only a banishment, she just needed Morgan to stay away. She could feel the familiar bolt of energy going through her as she spoke the words. Her eyes remained on Constance who was getting pulled closer toward the circle as she chanted. She could feel the fight in her, but this was the kindest outcome for her.

“Fucking Stars, she’s nineteen and a few centuries! How is that important right now!” Morgan screamed. She wasn’t going to make Constance into Jasmine’s problem. She would find her own exorcist, and maybe a plan B or C just in case they crapped out on her. Morgan was pulling Nell back to the Subaru. She was trying to shield her with her body and fish out her salt at the same time. “Salt outside the car and get inside, okay?” She turned to Adam, pointing furiously at the car, “Stuff is replaceable, you are no--!” She didn’t quite finish, because the roar in the air grew quiet and she heard Jasmine--chanting? Morgan whirled. “What are you doing? That’s not the binding, what the hell is that?”

A burst of force knocked her to the ground and dragged her through the salted earth until her head collided with a tree. It happened so fast, Morgan’s vision blurred. She grimaced, reaching for the salt pistol clumsily to her belt when she looked up and saw… some 1950’s barbie with a snapped neck. “Who the fuck are you?”

Constance screamed to the heavens. At last her body held some gravity, but it wasn’t binding her to the earth. She was being dragged towards a circle. She didn’t need to see its sigils to know it would mean her end. “Nancy!” She screamed. The leaves rose from the ground at her cry, the trees trembled. Control. A strong spirit was like a strong witch; she needed control.

All the herbs and magic playthings Morgan’s brood had gathered froze in the air, and with them, the two bodies not protected by Blanche Harlow’s words. She did not see Nancy lift her concentration, much stronger and better practiced than her own, to do likewise, nor how she approached the circle to take her place. There was an evil scream from Morgan, then the world shattered and bodies flew.

As Morgan tugged her towards the car, Nell did her best to wrestle from her grip, not keen in the least to let Jasmine and Morgan take the brunt of whatever it was the ghosts had come to accomplish. “I’m not gonna hide in the car!” she refused, though her indignance was also cut short as the exorcist began her ritual. Would Morgan retaliate? Try to stop Jasmine from doing her job? The witch wouldn’t get an answer as an invisible force threw her backwards along with the others. She landed roughly, arms scraped open by the assorted twigs and rocks of the forest floor when she’d tried to catch herself in a roll, trying to shield Taki from ricocheting off the ground as well. It was then that she officially decided that fighting ghosts was the single worst thing in the world and all its realms to go up against. How was she supposed to stab something she couldn’t see? She couldn’t even stab them to begin with. With a frustrated growl she rose from where she’d landed, wincing as her body protested the movement. The Ovinikk leapt from her arms, making a beeline towards the ghost named Nancy before erupting in an angry and thunderous dog’s bark, doing his best to ward off the spirit. Following his line of sight, Nell plucked the salt canister from where it had landed before blindly tossing its contents in the direction of the familiar’s barks, hoping it might miraculously find a hit.

Not for the first time, Adam found himself sprinting as things he couldn’t see turned his surroundings into an obstacle course. Autumn leaves were a dry whirlwind of red and gold as uncontrolled telekinesis and the sacred energies of exorcism caught everything in spiritual turbulence. Bowls and canisters shattered, sending shrapnel of glass and pottery zipping through the supernatural gale. The contradictory smells of pungent herbs and the frigid sterility of fall wind filled Adam’s nostrils as he booked it towards where the cars were parked, trying to not get pulverized as he ran across the grove.

Trying to pry off the windborn leaves that kept getting plastered against his eyes and mouth, Adam knelt by the closest car and started slating a circle around it. Adam’s world spun a bit as a stray herb bowl hurled from out of ritual space and shattered against the back of his neck. The ex-Hunter blinked flaring white spots from his vision and ignored the trickle of hot warmth down the back of his back.

His eyes cleared enough to see Morgan get flung against the tree with a blunt cracking sound.

Shit...well um, least she was already dead right?

Then Morgan started asking more nonexistent people who they were.

...that’s not good

How quickly things could spiral out of control wasn’t entirely new to Jasmine though it was different when it was just her and a ghost. Knowing how close Nell and this Adam kid were only steeled her sense of determination. The kids weren’t getting hurt on her watch even if it meant having to go up against two ghosts on her own. She laid more salt down and kept her eyes firmly between Constance and Nancy as she yelled out, “Nell, Adam. Car now. Morgan, not now. I keep the ghosts from killing us and you get the kids out of here.” There wasn’t time for Morgan to fight her on this. Constance was undeniably strong and her friend seemed to have been practiced, too. It was inconveniently her friend that was now bound to the circle as the air whipped around them at an impossible speed. Jasmine dug her heels in the dirt to try and stabilize herself against the whirlwind happening around her, but found she found herself floating in the air alongside Morgan and all the items they’d gathered.

The howls of air swirling were hard to shout over especially with no stable ground beneath her feet and Constance’s shriek still ringing in her ears. She had to keep pushing if any of them were going to make it out of this. Nancy was bound to the circle and it didn’t seem like Constance was going to join anytime soon. They couldn’t fight off both of them and Jasmine felt the fear creep up on her. Making the hair on her arms stand on end and added to the dizziness she was feeling from above the ground. Her words weren’t steady as she was whipped around, but not a syllable was missed. Right now, getting rid of one ghost would have to do as she kept going with the banishment ritual she knew like the back of her hand.

After what felt like an eternity, her chants drew to a close and Nancy simply disappeared forever. It’s what she wanted to do with Constance, but she already felt entirely too drained to perform another banishment. The floating in the air only furthered the feeling of unsteadiness, until she was no longer in the air. It was all very sudden after Nancy was gone that she found herself being thrown into the tree. The crack of bone against wood was enough to make her nauseated and she let out a pained shout as pain shot through her left arm. “Bitch,” she screamed knowing she had little else to stand on and her iron rod was too far away for her to grab in her condition.

Constance saw it all and yet was powerless to do a thing. The gravity on her body ebbed, all the energy she’d been pouring into fleeing sprang back and she shot into the trees, watching from the branches as Nancy disappeared without so much as an ‘I’m sorry.’ A thought came to her as lightning: this cruel departure had always been Nancy’s plan. If not to use her as a bridge off this miserable world so she need not bear pretending to care, then to grant Constance more time. Either way, she was utterly abandoned. Was this the so-called pleasure of lifting her gaze to anything beyond her one wish?

“You monster!” She screamed, flinging herself back down to the ground. She reached for the woman’s bent arm, as if she could will herself solid and snap it like so many twigs. The trees screamed with her as she wailed. To think she had ever considered Morgan’s friends worth sparing, that to be direct and careful was the only and best way to fulfill the fate she had written. Not anymore, maybe not ever. Constance wanted to burn it all, and for their remorse to be written on every human face as too little, too late.

Bang. A salt round fired through Constance and exploded into the trunk of a tree. The ghost turned just in time to see who had done it. Her mouth opened to scream just as she dissipated. Morgan stood crooked and seething as her spine knit itself back together. Her pistol dangled lip in her fingers. “You’re welcome,” she growled. “Now please explain to me what the hell was going on with that. You could have just taken her with iron, with literally anything else…” The last of her vertebrae snapped into place and she was able to look around. The herbs, irrevocable. Jar, smashed. Hides and fluids, destroyed. If Constance was going to be bound out of trouble, they would need to start from scratch. But there was something else that nagged at her worse. For a moment that had gone so completely off the rails, there was a serious lack of surprise and confusion among her friends. A lot of the attention was on her, and it didn’t seem like the ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘we’ll try again’ variety. “What’s going on…?”

Once the winds had returned to normal, and Morgan stopped shooting at thin air, Nell presumed the coast was clear. Crouching next to Jasmine, she took in the awkward angle the exorcist’s arm had been broken into, grimacing in sympathetic pain. “We gotta get you to the hospital.” Then as an afterthought— “You have insurance, right?” She wasn’t about to willingly lead someone else to thousands of dollars in debt. Jasmine’s injury had sparked the fire of worry in Nell’s belly, but Morgan’s question ignited it into a full blown flame, guilt beginning to pool. “I agreed...that Constance should be gotten rid of if the moment presented itself.” She was used to taking the fall with her sisters, so it came naturally to try and focus the blame on herself in this situation as well. Besides, it only felt right when she’d essentially betrayed the trust of her friend. It was true that Nell had never promised against exorcising Constance, but she’d also agreed to helping Morgan do it her way, and the two paths weren’t all that conducive. “I’m sorry,” she replied reflexively, not knowing what else to say.

It was becoming increasingly more apparent to Jasmine that Morgan hardly had her priorities straight. She was injured and others had been put in danger’s way yet her biggest worry was the fact she tried to get rid of said dangerous ghost without torturing her. Not to mention the ghost was practically a child. None of it sat well with her and she found anger boiling over in her. “What do you mean what the hell was I doing? In case you didn’t notice, we had a ghostly tag team try to kill us? Or did you not notice my extremely broken arm here… which, hey, kind of your fault for not wanting to handle this in an even remotely responsible way. A cast is going to clash with literally my entire wardrobe,” she huffed out as she tried to gesture to her broken arm but failed as she winced in pain. She shot Nell a look, “Nell, you don’t have to take the blame for this. I would have tried to get rid of the murderous ghost with or without your approval. That’s literally why I have these powers to begin with.” She quickly looked back to Morgan and rolled her eyes, “Look, I get you’re pissed and have your whole torture revenge thing, but your feelings aren’t more important than people’s lives. Which should be glaringly obvious.”

“I dissipated Constance in two seconds and I could’ve done the same with vintage Barbie too! We could have finished this just fine!” Morgan snapped. “And if you didn’t notice, I was protecting the kids while you were busy doing some kind of banishment instead of walking them into thin air!” But there was something more, something worse, and it made Morgan deflate and back away from them all. What did Nell mean by ‘agreed’ to do something in the ‘moment.’ Morgan played back all of their last conversations, searching for the time when Nell had said, sorry Morgan, but no, I think this is bullshit. She’d posed some questions, she was afraid of there being more collateral damage than there needed to be, but she never said she didn’t want to. She’d said she would help Morgan. They’d talked about what was happening to her powers. Hot chocolate. Movies. Her mom. Everything but stepping out of this. “If we had just stuck to the plan, no one else would have gotten hurt,” she said, her voice trembling with shock. “Which apparently doesn’t matter to either of you, but don’t throw your choices on me like I don’t give a shit.”  She searched for Adam in the midst of them. “What about you? After all the times I said you didn’t need to do anything you didn’t want to. Was this your idea too?”

“Nope,” Adam stated with blunt honesty as he stepped out of the salt circle and walked to the back of his car. He popped the trunk up with a click and the footballer’s head vanished into the cargo space. Some clicking and unlatching sounds were followed by Adam remerging with a tan military medic’s kit slung over one shoulder.

Adam crossed the rubble-strewn ritual space, tennis shoes crunching on pottery shards and autumnal leaves. He took a knee by the ladies and unzipped the tactical med kit with the purposeful calm of someone used to tending to grizzly battlefield wounds.

He produced a tincture of watery translucent goo with the depiction of a grotesque goblinoid creature with a distended barracuda-like jaw and bone claws on the label. “You’ll want some of this for the pain,” Adam said to his companions offering them the anesthetic tincture of reified Rawhead salvia and a stopper. “Only a drop or two though, else you’ll get muscle paralysis and shit yourself,” he explained with that gentle bedside manner Hunters were famous for.

Adam furthered purposed a splint and bandages for Jasmine, along with the more sutures, gauze, and antibacterials for everyone’s general lacerations.

“Honestly Beck, I was just gonna stab you in the spine and hold Miss Hale at gunpoint till she exorcised Ginger Casper normally,” Adam admitted, speaking of assault and threats in an amiably conversational tone. “But it looks like they’d worked out something smarter than that already.”

Jasmine could feel her blood boiling beneath her skin despite the lightheadedness she was feeling. Between blood loss and banishing Nancy, she found herself pretty zapped in the blood sugar department. As much didn’t stop her from glaring at Morgan, “I told Nell to go to safety so there was no chance for either of them to hurt anyone ever again.” Her voice was getting weaker, but fire was pushing her nonetheless. “You’re going to end up just like them on your whole revenge path.”

She eyed Adam as he tried to give her something for the pain. Her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Uhm, what the hell is that?” The mention of shitting herself was enough to make her wary of it, but if he was going to insist on patching her up she figured she better use it. It only served to make her more woozy as he went on and everything felt like it was spinning.

It was difficult to brace herself even with the numbness though Adam’s genius plan was enough to make her eyes widen. “Excuse me?” This kid was going to force her to perform an exorcism at gunpoint? “You were going to what?” She moved away as he had already placed the splint and muttered, “Ugh, you know what. Not a priority. Do you have a driver’s license? I’d like to see a real doctor and I can’t exactly drive like this.”

The entire situation had quickly dissolved into a shit show, and Nell wasn’t sure where to begin with Jasmine and Morgan. The witch didn’t have a defense for the choices she’d made other than the fact that she hadn’t wanted more unneeded innocent blood being shed on the path to ending Constance. And though Adam was doing his best to patch up what he could, it seemed that Jasmine wasn’t all that fond of possibly being made to complete an exorcism at gunpoint. Which was...fair enough. Nell wasn’t a mediator. She was better at creating tense situations than resolving them- especially when there was no common enemy to point anyone towards. The only way she knew out of a situation like this was to focus on an end task, and try to get the others to do that as well. “Let’s just get Jasmine more medical care,” she repeated, assuming the exorcist had already remembered that Nell didn’t have a car license. Latching onto the woman’s uninjured arm, she began to try and guide her towards Adam’s car.

The choice of whether or not to look at Morgan was one that took Nell a long pause to make, trying to decide if she wanted to see the hurt and disappointment that she was sure to find there. This was why she’d done her best to avoid the woman ever since she’d made her decision to get rid of Constance by whatever means were fastest. Ripping off the bandaid hurt less if the wound beneath it already had the chance to scab over. Finally she found Morgan’s eyes, knowing it was the coward’s choice not to face the consequences of her actions. But now what? What could she possibly say that would do any good to either of them? She wasn’t sorry for trying to get rid of Constance, even now. It was the right thing to do— minimizing collateral damage. The only regret she has was that of hurting her friend. “We should go,” was all she could settle on.

Adam’s hidden plan wasn’t all that surprising to Morgan, given his ‘barbed wire in a backpack’ ways and how quick he’d been to share his distaste with Constance’s age. It would be awkward in class, if the full moon didn’t kill him first, but it was nothing she couldn’t brace herself for. Jasmine’s cunning had tripped her up; most of the dutiful types she’d met in White Crest didn’t encumber themselves with lying to your face, but she’d remember not to let the exorcist’s confidence fool her into thinking that what she saw was what she got. It was Nell that left Morgan dumbfounded, staring slack-jawed and stupid as she helped carry Jasmine to Adam’s car, so focused that Morgan may as well have been a ghost herself. “Wow,” she said, too stunned to even put much venom behind her voice. “Not even an explanation, huh?” Morgan’s eyes burned as she spoke and she wished, bitterly, for even an ounce of banshee control so she could just stay hard and steady and leave. But her face was trembling on the verge of collapse, her voice full and ready to crack on the next breath. “I trusted you. I gave you a choice, so many choices, Nell, and I trusted you…” She hadn’t deluded herself into thinking she was nearly as important to Nell as Nell was to her. Nell had a family, a community that had seen her grow, friends her own age. It was an imbalance Morgan could live with, to feel like she had a family of her own. But she hadn’t reckoned on being worth so little that Nell could turn her back on her with ease, that she would be left alone in the underbrush as the sun cut red over the trees.  It took all the self control Morgan had to turn her back on Nell in kind and get back to her Subaru. “So much for that.”

[srsly-messed-up-fruitloop]

Shielded Away (pt 1)

““Jeez Fenton, what the heck are you doing?”

Danny stopped. “Just practicing for mime school, you know...just in case the whole astronaut thing doesn’t work out.”

Wes squinted. “Wait a minute...the news said they placed your parents’ newest ghost shield around all of Amity…”

Danny groaned, for what felt like the hundredth time today. “Are you kidding me?” He prodded at the shield, only to get stung again.

At that, Wes began to chuckle, which turned into an actual laugh, eventually becoming full-blown cackling.

Danny scowled. Not calming down in the slightest, Wes continued to cackle as he walked off into the distance.”

Or, my take on this prompt posted by @danphanwritingprompts

Word Count: 5,183

Read on AO3 or under the cut

Danny glanced at himself in the mirror in the washroom. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to have doubled in size since he last saw them. Not that he cared. He was too exhausted to care. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet, but he’s already fought seven ghosts today. A thin cool mist expelled from his lips. And here comes the eighth.

Outside in the halls, a familiar voice boomed, “BEWARE, I AM THE BOX GHOST!” Danny watched himself as his eyes became a vibrant green on instinct. Transforming once again, he flew out the washroom, sighting the box-loving spirit throwing cardboard boxes at students. He zoomed towards him, grabbing his ankle, forced them both intangible, and dragged him down to the school’s basement.

“Hey! Can’t you see I was in the middle of something?” the Box Ghost whined.

“Yeah? Attempting to traumatize people once again with boxes? How many times do I gotta tell you it’s really not scary?”

“IS TOO!” The Box Ghost angrily hurled a dusty box at Danny, who then fired an ectoblast at it to defend himself.

“You know, I could think of a hundr—oof!” Somehow Danny didn’t notice every single storage box in the basement hovering right above his head, before it was too late. Man, he really needs sleep.

He faintly heard the ghost laughing above him. Of all the places in the school, he had to lead the Box Ghost here. He’s gotta remember to use the roof next time. But this time, he knows he’d hidden a Fenton thermos somewhere around here…

In an instant, he turned intangible and phased through all the boxes he was buried under. His eyes searched wildly around the basement. Where was it?

“LOOKING FOR THIS?” Danny’s head shot up, finally seeing the thermos. Well, crap. “LET’S SEE HOW YOU LIKE BEING STUCK IN THE CONFINES OF A CYLINDRICAL CONTAINER!” Hearing the beep of the thermos activating, Danny gasped as he was slowly sucked into it. Since when did the Box Ghost learn how to use it??

“HA HAH! HOW DOES IT FEEL NOW?” the ghost yelled into the container, painfully vibrating Danny’s condensed molecules. “Now if you will excuse me, I WILL HAVE MY CORRUGATED CARDBOARD VENGEANCE!” Next thing Danny knew, he felt a harsh CLUNK to his everything as the thermos fell to the hard floor.

Outsmarted by the Box Ghost, he really was having a bad day. Well, hopefully, Tucker and Sam will find him. Eventually. He could just imagine Sam berating him immediately after releasing him. “You should have called us first! Of all places, why would you bring the Box Ghost to the basement?” Tucker would be laughing his ass off. Honestly, he wouldn’t blame him.

~

Each minute in the thermos always felt like an eternity. His form was squished to the point where all he could really do is think. And he’s come to realize how much he actually depends on his friends. He doesn’t appreciate them enough.

Except, they should be here anytime now.

Anytime.

Any. Time.

Nothing.

Wait. There were footsteps. The next instant, he was being picked up. Finally, they found him. Come on now, press the button Tucker. What was taking him so long? A fair bit of fumbling continued until fingers found the right button and he was finally released. Danny groaned and stretched, feeling an ache from being compressed for so long.

“You’re lucky I found you Fenton.”

That. Wasn’t Tucker. Or Sam. His head shot up, seeing a red-haired pain in the ass holding a stupid grin, growing wider by the second. Wes.

“Were you stalking me again?”

“Just gathering evidence. You should be grateful, who knows how long you’d be stuck in there.”

Danny scowled. His friends would’ve eventually found him. “Fine, thanks. Now if you excuse me, I have a job to finish.” He flew up, phasing through the ceiling. Invisibly weaving through the corridors of his school, he noticed two things. One, his ghost sense seemed to be picking up nothing at all. Two, the hallways were deserted. He peeked into a random classroom, empty. Same for the one beside it. He zipped through the ceiling to the second floor, stopping in front of the English classroom he left behind. Empty. Save for his bag tucked under his chair. He really should stop doing that, the number of times he’d left class forgetting his bag was too embarrassing. Picking up his bag from the floor, he walked over to the window expecting a routine gathering for a ghost alarm. Nope, the fields were empty too. Weird. Maybe they’re at the front. He was just about to check, but something about the far off view of Amity’s city buildings struck him as odd. He pulled out his phone. Dead. Right, never got a chance to charge it last night.

“Everyone’s gone.” Wes suddenly spoke from the door, almost a tinge of fear in his voice. Funny, he’s never seen Wes scared before. This should be good.

“You sure?”

“I checked everywhere, even the teacher’s lounge.”

Huh. Danny glanced out the window again. “Parking lot’s completely empty.”

“The entire school couldn’t possibly abandon us—we were only down in the basement for an hour,”

“AN HOUR?”

“Yeah, I was busy collecting evidence.”

“Okay, first off, you need a new hobby. Second, why didn’t you let me go earlier if you were there the entire time?”

“Hey, be grateful. I was contemplating not letting you out at all.”

Wes could be such a...ugh. There were bigger things at hand. Like the disappearance of his entire school.

“Give me your phone.” Wes eyed him suspiciously. He stuffed his hand in his pocket and brought out a small device, slightly bigger than the palm of his hand. Danny approached closer. “Is that a freaking Nokia?”

“Can’t trust smartphones, government uses them to steal all your information.”

Of course. Danny grabbed the cell phone. It reminded him of a calculator. “Can you even text on this thing?”

“It’s not worth it. You can call though.”

Danny searched the deep recesses of his brain for his friends’ phone numbers. He dialed a number, half guessing the last four digits.

The dial tone rang...and rang, and rang once more…

A smooth automated female voice responded, “Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of—” then there was a moment of silence. The automated voice picked back up, “Please leave your name and message after the tone.” BEEP.

He just hung up then. Sam never bothers checking her voicemail anyways. Dang, if only he remembered Tucker’s number.

“...should we just leave? Maybe everyone got sent home?” Wes hesitantly asked.

Something still didn’t sit quite well with Danny, but the idea of using the rest of the day to catch up on some sleep was too good to resist. He tossed Wes’ brick phone back to him and muttered, “Alright, see you around, I guess.” He didn’t waste any time in turning intangible and flying through the classroom window, heading straight for home.

On his journey back, it was oddly peaceful. Usually every time he flew in broad daylight at least one person would sight him and yell anything along the lines of “Hey, look! It’s Danny Phantom!” or “Screw you ghost boy!” He was still a very controversial figure in the town, even though the news seems to be taking his side now.

And well, Danny has given up on trying to woo those who still dislike him. No matter what he does, all they see is a ghost. Apparently it isn’t clear that his only intentions are protecting the town. It sucks that his parents are part of that special group. Their narrow-minded point of view almost killed him on several occasions (well...metaphorically, he’s already kinda dead).

Which is why he transformed back into human form as soon as he landed on his front step. The lights for the Fenton Works sign were off. Odd. His parents were adamant on keeping them on 24/7, despite constant complaints from all their neighbours. He dug for his key in his backpack and unlocked the front door. Stepping inside, he slipped off his shoes and shrugged his backpack to the floor.

“Mom? Dad?”

Nothing. He strode over to the kitchen and checked the basement entrance. Locked. They must be out. Sweet, nothing to distract him from his well-deserved nap. He grabbed a cookie from a jar and made his way upstairs. As he was halfway through that cookie, he passed by Jazz’s room. He failed to notice the absence of Bearbert Einstein from her bed.

He brushed off the crumbs off his hands and opened his bedroom door. Flopping onto his bed, Danny was just about to pass out until he remembered. He groaned and blindly reached for the end of his charger on his nightstand. Ugh where was it? Reluctantly peeking one eye open, he saw lying aimlessly on the floor. Ugh. Stretching to the point where half his body was off the bed (it would’ve been much easier if he just sat up), he finally grabbed the charger and plugged in his phone. Victory. Now, he could relax. He’ll deal with whatever happened later.

BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING

No, he swore he just closed his eyes a second ago. Just a few more minutes.

BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING

Please.

BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING

BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING

The vibrating stopped. Hallelujah. Now back to h—

BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING BRIIIIIIIIIING

The obnoxious buzzing continued once more. Several rounds later, Danny slowly blinked open his groggy eyes. He had to suppress the urge to hurl his phone at the wall when he finally grabbed it. Declining the call, he was just about to return to his slumber until he noticed his screen was full of notifications. 9 missed calls from his mom, 5 from his dad, 11 from Jazz, 17 from Sam...his stomach sunk. Danny almost dropped his phone on his face when it started ringing once more, this time his dad again. He didn’t waste a moment in answering it.

“Hello?”

“Danno where are you? Did you get to evacuate with your school? Sam and Tucker say they haven’t seen you!”

“Wha—what? Evacu—”

“Hang on your mom’s here,”

“Danny sweetie, where are you? You’re not in the Casper High group.”

“Mom what did dad mean by eva—”

“And our tracker says you’re home, but you know we can never trust it since it sometimes locks onto that menace Phanto—”

“Wait a tracker?”

“Yes honey, we need to always know where you kids are, especially at times like these. Now, which evacuation group did you leave with?”

“Uhh...I’m actually home.”

The line went silent for a few moments. Danny heard his mom’s barely contained anxiety as she spoke her next words. “That’s...how did you...that’s alright sweetie. Can yo—was anyone else left behind?”

“Yeah, uhm, Wes Weston?”

“Okay...okay. Can you find him...and leave the town right away?”

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“Danny, please.”

“...okay.”

“Call us once you’re out, okay?”

“Okay mom.”

“Love you sweetie.”

“Yea you too.” He hung up then, his earlier grogginess completely forgotten now. Right, okay, he just has to find Wes no—

BRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING

A LOUD shrill noise accompanied the incessant buzzing on his phone. Danny’s stomach dropped even further.

“[11:00 AM] EMERGENCY ALERT: Due to the increasingly harmful and destructive occupation of extra-dimensional beings in the town of Amity Park, the state of Illinois in conjunction with the GiW has made the final decision to evacuate all residents. Please follow your nearest evacuation group and proceed to exit the town.”

It was 3:07 now. The entire town just left? While he was stuck in the thermos? And “increasingly harmful and destructive occupation of extra-dimensional beings”? Dammit he had it under control.

Just before Danny left the room, he made sure to grab his charger.

Grabbing his bag left on the floor by the front door, he nearly jumped when he saw Wes sitting on the living room couch.

“How did—”

“Chill Fenton, you left the door unlocked.”

“But wh...nevermind. Did you hear—”

“About the evacuation? Yeah let’s get outta here.”

He didn’t bother to look back to check if Wes was following. The annoying scruff of his sneakers on the sidewalk was enough to tell.

But twenty minutes later, he couldn’t help but wonder why Wes was left behind too. “So...why didn’t you leave?”

“You know nobody takes those ghost alarms seriously anymore, right? Oh wait, you do, cause you’re Ph—”

“What about the emergency alert?” Danny asked, cutting Wes off.

“What emergency alert?”

“You didn’t get it? On your phone?” Danny pulled out his phone and showed Wes the notification.

“Oh, heh, I don’t get those.”

“What do you mea—oh, right. Your dinosaur phone is too old to get them.”

“Hey, at least with my dinosaur phone, the government can’t spy on my every move. That seems like something you’d be interested in, Phantom.”

“If the government was spying on us, how did they manage to forget us when evacuating the town?”

“The government has bigger things they like to worry about.”

“Sure, like hiding Area 51 right?”

“Exactly!” Wes exclaimed enthusiastically. “Finally, someone gets me.”

“Dude, that was sarcasm.”

Wes deflated at that. “Screw you Fenton.”

“Yeah, I—” the next moment Danny slammed face-first into something that  stung. Quickly backing up, he saw Wes walking, perfectly unperturbed. Hesitantly, he took his index finger and slowly pushed forward, until he was blocked again. Ghost shield, great.

Turning intangible, he disappeared into the ground and tried burrowing under the barrier, only to get blocked and stung again. Dammit, he shouldn’t have told his parents about ghosts being able to get past their old shields that way. Returning up, Danny began to feel his way around the shield, attempting to find a weak spot.

At some point, Wes stopped, noticing that Danny wasn’t tailing him anymore. “Jeez Fenton, what the heck are you doing?”

Danny stopped. “Just practicing for mime school, you know...just in case the whole astronaut thing doesn’t work out.”

Wes squinted. “Wait a minute...the news said they placed your parents’ newest ghost shield around all of Amity…”

Danny groaned, for what felt like the hundredth time today. “Are you kidding me?” He prodded at the shield, only to get stung again.

At that, Wes began to chuckle, which turned into an actual laugh, eventually becoming full-blown cackling.

Danny scowled. Not calming down in the slightest, Wes continued to cackle as he walked off into the distance.

Bastard.

After Danny could no longer see the flare of his annoying red-hair, he sighed and glanced upwards, turning around until he saw the tower at the centre of the town, blasting at full strength. His parents worked relentlessly for more than a year on that tower. After trial and error with various other ghost shields, they finally perfected the ultimate model. Danny tried his best to help too, ghost shields were becoming more vital to Team Phantom as the days passed on (mostly because it stopped people from complaining about property damage). Often that involved sneaking down to the basement while they were out purchasing supplies, testing it out, and subtly dropping recommendations during dinner time. With governmental aid on their side, they were able to expand it into a town-wide defense mechanism, resistant against all ectoplasmic entities, even halfas in their human form.

With all the good their work has done for Amity, they are no longer seen as the town’s local kooks. Jack and Maddie Fenton are now revered as the country’s leading scientists on ghosts. That tower was a stark symbol of his parents’ true dedication. Every time Danny saw that tower, he felt a swell of pride for his parents in his chest. Except for this time. Instead, he felt dread slowly trickling down into the pit of his stomach. Why must everything his parents invent come to bite him in the butt sooner or later?

Plunking down beside the shield, Danny laid down in the grass and pulled out his phone again. Ignoring the even bigger clusterfuck of notifications on his lock screen, he started up a video call with Tucker.

The instant the call picked up, Tucker shrilled into the speaker “DANNY, WHERE THE—” which was then combined with Sam exclaiming, “Is that Danny? You got him finall—WHAT THE HELL DANNY?”

Shit, he didn’t mean to make them so worried. “Hey guys, I-I’m fine,” he said, sheepishly looking away from the screen.

Sam’s expression quickly switched from angry to concerned. “We didn’t see you when the ghost alarm went off...” she trailed off.

“Yeah?”

“Figured you were taking care of it,” Tucker added. “We had no idea—”

“Tucker it’s okay.”

“Wait, really? You made it out?”

“Well...errr...”

Sam’s face took over the screen, expression serious. “Danny...are you still in Amity?”

“Uhh...yeah?”

A moment of silence passed, where Sam’s eyes widened and Tucker just walked off screen.

“B-but look, I’ll figure out a way out! I helped build the shield, I should be able to take it down, right?”

Tucker jumped back into the frame, “You were the one who helped make it indestructible, especially against yourself!”

“True but—” he was suddenly interrupted as his phone started buzzing again. “Shit, my parents are calling, what do I tell them?”

“Just say you’re on your way out?”

“But Wes already left!”

“Wes?”

“Yeah, Wes, no time to explain—what do I say??”

“Just answer it!”

“Um.”

“DANNY!” Tucker and Sam both yelled.

He jerked as he hung up and accepted his parents’ voice call. Hesitantly holding the phone to his ear, he stuttered out, “H-hello?”

His mom’s worried voice crackled through the speaker, “Sweetie, where are you now? Wesley just came out and told us you were coming…”

“Uh…” He had to think up something. NOW. “Uhh...ghost!”

“Danny wha—”

“Can’t talk now, ghost chasing me—bye!” He abruptly hung up and shut off his phone. Heart beating rapidly, he stared at the black screen. His parents are going to kill him for this.

Well, if not already for being Danny Phantom. Ha.

Lying back down on the grass (at what point did he start sitting up?), he registered just how quiet it was. No vehicles humming in the background, no people; just a soothing autumn breeze brushing against the leaves, accompanied by an occasional chirp from a bird nearby. A lone cloud floated off in the bright blue sky. With a bit of squinting, it looked like a hoagie. At that moment, his grumbling stomach decided to interrupt the serenity.

Searching his bag, he found the sandwich he packed for lunch, which was now disgustingly soggy. Ew. Did his parents leave any leftovers back in the fridge? Nah...wait. His eyes locked on a Nasty Burger in the distance. If people had to evacuate, then they must’ve left their orders behind, right? Yeah, he would be doing the world a service by not letting that greasy burger goodness go to waste. Tucker would back him up on this.

Five minutes later, he phased out of the fast food joint with a bag of untouched, barely warm Nasty burgers in one hand and a Nasty soda in the other.

Danny was going back home to figure out a way to get past the shield. Not at all because of his impending food coma. So what if he decided to take a quick power nap to regain his focus? He’d get nothing done anyways if he was too tired to think.

And so what if that quick nap turned into him knocking out for 13 hours?

Startling awake in his bed, he checked the clock. 8:00 AM. Shit! He’s late for school. Stumbling out his bed, he immediately tripped over his backpack, falling to the floor in a harsh thud.

“Ow.”

Rubbing his shoulder, everything came flooding back in his now clear mind. Fuck, how could he let the Box Ghost trap him in his own thermos?

Fuck, he has to get up. He has to find a way to get past that shield. Right now. His parents, his friends...they’re all waiting. Who knows what could be happening to them, they could be in danger, they’d need him. He has to before...before…

Before what?

Danny didn’t even realize he was doing his morning routine on autopilot until he was in the kitchen, halfway through a slice of toast. “Ergh!” he exclaimed as he spat out the almost cardboard-like excuse for breakfast onto his plate.

Why would they be in danger?

Glancing outside, he only saw a flock of living birds in the distance. Where did all the ghosts go?

Maybe because there’s no longer anyone to haunt. And as long as the shield remains, there’s no chance of even a blob ghost escaping.

Wait, there’s still Vlad in Wisconsin! No, he wouldn’t dare make a move while the Guys in White were watching. That’s one thing he knew for certain about the fruitloop.

So...what now? Danny leaned back in the kitchen chair as the realization slowly dawned on him. Everyone’s safe. A wave of relief came over him, washing away a suffocating feeling he didn’t even realize was always there. For the first time in months, he could breathe.

The next thing Danny does is turn his pathetic slices of toast into a triple decker PB & J sandwich. Another first in months.

Of course he had to be finding a way to get past the shield. His parents must be so worried. Jazz...he still hasn’t called her back. Staring at the black screen of his phone, he couldn’t bring himself to turn it on again. Talking to her would only worry her even more, right? Ancients forbid, if his parents called again...what could he even say this time?

Sam and Tucker could fill her in. They probably already did. He slid the inactive phone back in his pocket and got up to drop his empty plate in the sink.

Hours later, Danny was sticking his tongue out in concentration, trying to get past the Level 4 boss in Doomed. He honestly started up the old desktop in the basement fully intending to review his parents’ notes on the shield. After nearly nodding off on the eighth page, he decided that he deserved a little break.

Yet, that break was still going strong at 5:30am the next day. He was finally on the last level. So close...his bloodshot eyes locked on the final key, just within arm’s reach. Almost...there…

Except, a shot came out of nowhere, striking his player right in his chest, killing him instantly. And because he was on his last life, Danny stared in disbelief as the words “Game Over” appeared on the screen. He threw the computer mouse in frustration, unintentionally letting a bit of his ghostly strength through.

Well, crap. He needs a new mouse now.

Maybe he can stop by the store in the morning. Yawning heavily, his eyes wandered to the lab’s wall clock, widening as he read the time.

He...he should’ve been focusing on the shield! He groaned as he took another look at the broken mouse. There’s not even any store to stop by anymore! Screw this, he needs sleep. He’ll deal with this later.

~

Apparently later meant a week from then. He honestly doesn’t know how he got so distracted. He just knew the majority of the last week was spent binge-watching classic horror movies and emptying out his dad’s secret hidden stash of snacks. Jazz probably would be able to offer him some textbook explanation for this.

At some point, he’d managed to convince himself that everyone’s eventually coming back. Why else would he still have electricity? And his family left pretty much everything behind, except for a few ecto-weapons and the GAV. There’s no way this can be permanent. And why should it be? He still couldn’t find the true reason for the evacuation, news reports from earlier that week just cite the “increasingly harmful and destructive occupation of extra-dimensional beings.” Sure, Danny’s been busting his ass more recently, but it wasn’t like the town was about to be captured by Pariah Dark again. With that in mind, why should he expend any extra effort figuring out how to get past the shield? The shield he made sure worked against his very own biology?

Plus, he was happy to have a break from everything. At least that’s what he tells himself. He tries to ignore that nagging feeling in the back of his mind, telling him that he should turn his phone back on.

Anyways, his dad’s snacks have run out. Which is why he was standing right in front of the supermarket, currently in his ghost form. He’s just going to phase in, grab what he needs, and phase right back out. Easy. It’s fine, even if he sets off any security alarms, no one’s even here to stop him. Besides, a lot of that food’s probably gonna go bad anyways.

The first thing he noticed was all the flies. They seemed to be having a party in the (slightly smelly) produce section. Luckily for Danny, eating his veggies wasn’t really a top priority (sorry Sam). He grabbed a basket, floated over to the bread area, and tossed in a loaf. One of his greatest accomplishments in the last week was learning how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. That and the snacks are what have fueled him in the last week.

It seemed like the owners still left everything on after abandoning the store. The meat section was thankfully cool and fly-free. Danny eyed his options, recalling all the times Tucker shared his favourite methods of cooking each meat. Guess that knowledge is finally being put to good use. Bacon? Yes. Steak? Yup. Drumsticks? Of course. Sausages? Can’t say no to that.

Danny floated further along, grabbing various other items, including a couple boxes of frozen dinners and plenty of snacks.

He almost forgot about the mouse. Luckily, he passed by the electronics store on the way home.

After packing away the groceries, Danny thought he deserved a nap. After, he’ll probably try making the sausages for dinner. And maybe give reading those shield notes another shot since he had the mouse now.

At least, that’s what he told himself. Instead, he finally beat Doomed. Holy shit. He instinctively reached for his phone to text Tucker. They’ve been playing that game since they were nine! He…

Faced with his still powered-off phone, Danny suddenly realized that it’s been a week since he last spoke to Tucker. And Sam.

He really should talk to them. He’s been an awful friend, he’s gotta at least reassure them that he’s alright. Yet Danny couldn’t bring himself to turn his phone back on.

Eventually, an imaginary light bulb lit up above his head, and he logged into his email on the computer. However, the moment he saw his inbox cluttered with emails from his parents, he logged the fuck outta there. Nope.

While watching The Birds later that night and seeing Melanie lock herself in a phone booth to protect herself from the violent seagulls, Danny suddenly got another idea.

~

It was a clear night, with the moon shining in all its glory, softly illuminating the dark sky. You couldn’t even tell that the shield was there. Almost would’ve been perfect for stargazing if it weren't for the useless city lights that were still on.

A family of raccoons was crossing the road a few blocks away. And a crow cawed from above on a lamp post. Otherwise, the street in front of his house was completely deserted.

He floated up until he had a view of the entire town. During his nightly patrols, it’d never been this quiet. It felt like he was almost intruding on something, being out here now.

Using his powers to enhance his vision in the dark, he searched around for a payphone. Yes, he’s seen them before, although he can’t say he’d ever used one. It's gotta be somewhere.

He passed by an electronics store with a TV playing the news in the display. He immediately halted and did a double-take. His face was splayed across the screen, with the headline underneath, “RESIDENT GHOST HUNTERS’ SON MISSING AFTER EVACUATION”.

Before he could fully process that, he was knocked to the ground. Panicking, he struggled to get back up, but was pinned under something. Hold on, this seems famili—

“What have you done with our son, ghost?” Maddie Fenton demanded, pure hostility lacing her words.

Danny stared wide-eyed at his mother through the net, standing over him and holding an ecto-gun to his forehead.

“I…uh...”

“Speak now. Otherwise, you’ll find out just how quickly a blast from this will obliterate your vile form,” she threatened, pressing the gun right to his head now.

“N-nothing I s-swear! He l-left, with everyone else,” Danny sputtered.

“Lies. You attacked him right before he was going to leave.”

Crap. In retrospect that wasn’t really a good choice for an excuse. “That wasn’t me!” he exclaimed.

In that moment Danny realized his father was also there, standing a few feet behind Maddie. “Scanner’s telling me that you’re the only ecto-entity in Amity Park. So, ‘fess up ghost boy,” Jack said, glaring at his son.

Danny looked between them. His heart dropped when he registered how stressed they both looked. His dad’s face was patchy in places, obviously left unshaven for days. The bags under his eyes only accentuated how bloodshot they were. Danny couldn’t see much of his mom due to her goggles, but she was visibly trembling. This was all because of him. That same nagging feeling he’d ignored for far too long was now threatening to boil over and strangle him. Choosing his next words carefully, he choked out, “Alright yeah, but he left. I swear.”

“No…” Maddie whispered.

“Maddie, maybe the tracker’s malfunctioning again,” Jack suggested.

She looked back at her husband for a few moments. Then, she lowered the gun. Danny didn’t even realize he was holding his breath.

“But...we’ve searched all the groups, and none of the nearby towns are reporting him. Where else can he be?” she pleaded.

“We just have to keep looking Mads,” Jack answered dejectedly.

As soon as his parents started up the GAV and turned at the block, Danny made an instantaneous decision. He transformed to human form, broke through his parents’ net, and ran after them, forgoing all consequences. The guilt was too much to bear. He ran as fast as his “barely passing P.E.” legs could take him. He passed several blocks, adrenaline fueling him to keep going. When he slammed into the shield once again, he looked up to see the GAV stopped far in the distance, with Maddie outside, sobbing into Jack’s shoulder while he held her. They were too far for his screams to reach.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Soldier, Poet, Queen [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Ciri looks across the table. “Jaskier, help me.”

The bard looks up, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “I’m not getting involved,” he says airily, continuing with his dinner.

Geralt snorts. “That’s a first.” The Witcher grunts as a swift kick lands to his shin underneath the table.

Ciri huffs, folding her arms tightly over her chest. It’s in moments like these that they’re both reminded how young the girl is. She’s a child. A bowl of stew sits in front of her, somewhat forgotten about. Geralt nudges it towards her. She takes a moment to glare at the Witcher before begrudgingly picking her spoon back up.

A troop of soldiers have taken up most of the rooms in the town. They’ve been called on by a neighbouring lord, intending on heading south to stop Nilfgaardian movements. It’s been almost a week and a half since they’ve heard anything about the southern kingdoms and how they’re fairing. It’s been even longer since they heard whispers about what the Nilfgaardian armies are up to. Still, they’ll keep moving north with the other refugees – all keen on putting as much distance as they can between them and the chasing fires.

Kaer Morhen is still a few leagues away. Winter seems keen on settling over the continent within the next couple of weeks. Snow has already started capping the mountains and hills. It won’t be long until it’s blown downwards; animals will be housed in barns and crops will long be hauled in. The roads will be frostbitten and hard, but empty. No one will try and travel in the cold.

The tavern isn’t that busy. Most of the soldiers are out back, sharpening their swords and fletching arrows. Geralt can hear the squeal of metal against whetstones, even through wooden walls and the soft chatter of those inside the tavern.

“You said it yourself,” Ciri mumbles, swirling her spoon around the stew. “I’m going to have to know how to protect myself.”

Geralt grunts. “And you can learn that in Kaer Morhen.”

“Which is still leagues away!”

“We’ll be there by the end of the week,” Geralt says shortly.

Ciri sighs, defeated. Jaskier can’t help but chuckle. “You’ll make a fine warrior, princess,” he offers.

Geralt frowns at him. Speaking any part of Ciri’s identity into the world seems like an invitation for bad things. He doesn’t know exactly what happened inside the walls of Cintra, or what happened in the week after the city fell, but he does know that not a lot of people mourned the Queen’s death. He’s heard her be called all sorts of insults on the roads. So Ciri is Fiona, and the fact that she is what she is, is only known to them both.

A small smile ghosts Ciri’s lips at the compliment. Geralt nudges her shoulder. “Eat,” he orders. “We’ll move out in the morning, so get as much food and sleep as you can.”

Kaer Morhen is both everything he expected it to be and nothing like it at all. A heavy wooden gate groans open as they approach. It’s a large keep, made up of slate-coloured buildings backed into the face of a mountain, shrouded and shielded by the hills around it and a thick, cloaking fog. Roach knickers softly, throwing her head back. Geralt gives her a soft pat on her neck. Jaskier catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. She recognises home.

A faint figure of a man slips out between the gates. He had a hand on the pommel of his sword, but it drops as soon as he sees them walking towards the gate. Even with the wind howling, Jaskier hears a deep laugh echo. “Well, I don’t fucking believe it,” the man spreads his arms out. “The White Wolf has returned for the winter!”

Roach halts. Jaskier helps Ciri down first, adjusting the girl’s cape around her shoulders and neck as a particularly harsh wind blows through. Geralt drops down from Roach. His feet have barely touched the ground before the man has him gathered in a tight embrace. Without the fog clouding his vision, Jaskier takes the man in. He’s the same height and build as Geralt, but his hair is cropped and auburn.

When they pull away from each other, the man claps his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about you!” he laughs.

Geralt pats the man’s arms “Is Vesemir here?” he asks, his expression stoning slightly.

The man nods. “Aye. He came back from market a few hours ago.”

Geralt hums. “I have something to discuss with him.”

The keep sprawls for what seems like miles in all directions. He can imagine what it must have been like, with countless boys in varying stages of life living within these walls. The stones around him contain memories, he’s sure. Now though, only a handful of hallways are lit by faint candlelight. Banners and tapestries have frayed edges, but still cling desperately to metal railings keeping them up.

As soon as they stepped foot inside the main keep, they stood in front of an elderly man with a scowling face. Geralt stiffened slightly. “Vesemir,” he inclined his head. Jaskier watched him out of the corner of his eye. Vesemir’s eyes – amber, though not as bright as Geralt’s – flickered over to where Jaskier and Ciri stood. His jaw tightened.

He inclined his head – a silent order for them to follow.

Jaskier will be sure to wander and explore later, but he learned that Kaer Morhen is bigger than it appears. A courtyard, kitchen, dining hall, library, and armoury – to name but a few rooms that he can see. Geralt told him countless stories about the keep and what there is in it. But after seeing it from the outside, how it scales up a mountainside, he’s sure that there are more things to find. And he isn’t really sure what other thing will occupy his time while they spend the winter here.

Ciri stays by his side. Jaskier glances down, watching them fall into step with each other. The Witchers walk together, a couple of strides ahead. Vesemir is silent: but Jaskier has lived too many years with Geralt to know when a person is brewing something like anger in them.

Jaskier squeezes her hand. A silent question. Are you alright?

She glances up at him. She nods after a moment, but tightens her grip on his hand.

They’re brought into a meeting space. A large hearth is at one side of the room, being stoked by who Jaskier presumes is Eskel. Geralt mentioned the names of his brothers before. The Witcher doesn’t look up from prodding the fire, hoping for the newest block of wood to catch. The man from the gate – Lambert, Jaskier learned – takes a seat near the fire. He kicks out with a leg, hitting Eskel’s calf. “Move, you oaf,” he says. “The heat can’t get out with your fat arse in the way.”

Eskel scowls at the other Witcher, but sets the poker back against the hearth. Vesemir watches all of them flood into the room. Jaskier takes Ciri to one of the many armchairs near the fire. She’s been trembling with the cold for the past couple of days, no matter how many layers of clothes she gets on. Jaskier gestures to the ties of her cloak. “Let’s get this off,” he says quietly, dropping down on one knee when she settles back into the armchair, “or you’ll overheat.”

“Are you stupid, boy?”

Vesemir’s voice is a harsh thing. Like a sword against metal. Jaskier glances over just in time to see Geralt wincing, looking down at his boots. He picks at some flaking skin around his fingernail.

“Forces like that of the Law is as ancient as time,” Vesemir growls. “We don’t interfere with it!”

“I didn’t think that-”

“-Too right! You didn’t think.” The man’s head snaps over to the other side of the room, looking at the other two Witchers.

Something shadows Eskel’s face.

Jaskier doesn’t have the heart to tell the eldest Witcher that, technically, Geralt invoked the Law twice. Both times, the end result was Ciri ending up being entrusted into his care. Whoever it was that ruled over the universe, a pantheon of gods or something else entirely, it was very keen on getting Ciri and Geralt together. Those two threads of fate are so entangled together now it’s hard to see where one ends and another begins. But looking at how small Geralt looks now, practically curled in on himself as Vesemir launches into another “lesson” about how destiny can be a treacherous, unyielding bitch, Jaskier bites his tongue.

It’s not to say he’ll store that piece of information away for later, for if Geralt happens to step out of line or be a particular pain in the arse.

Ciri stares down at her boots. Jaskier takes one of her hands in his. Even bundled in a heavy, woollen cloak, a scarf, and gloves, she still shakes like a leaf. He rubs their hands together, warming them up.

Behind them, Geralt tells Vesemir and the others about everything that had happened: from invoking the Law all those years ago in Cintra, to finding Ciri in a forest clearing over a decade later. Vesemir glances over to them when Geralt mentions Cintra. Something shadows over his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. An entire kingdom is without a monarch. He’s pretty sure that Cintra has fallen entirely. It’s not something that’s ever brought up. They can only imagine what Ciri went through when being taken out of the city.

There are brief moments, mainly during the night, when she’ll wake up because of a night terror. One of them is always nearby, gentling and assuring her that she is safe, and nothing would come to harm her.

And they were always so mindful. Neither of them used Ciri’s name while out in the wilds. She had told them both that she had called herself Fiona to a handful of Cintran refugees in the days after the fall of the city. It was a name that stuck. Gods only knew where Nilfgaardian soldiers were at any one moment, and if they had riders or spies heading up through the north, rooting out where the princess may have gone.

Something cold settled into Geralt’s bones one day: when he knew that Cahir or whoever it was leading the southern front wanted to get their hands on Ciri. Geralt always seemed quieter after that, more protective of the girl from just about anyone who wandered a bit too close. Ciri couldn’t walk anywhere without the Witcher being an ever-present shadow, always just an arm’s reach away. Jaskier gentled him as best as he could; but he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel the same way.

Apart from wandering the halls of the keep, taking stock of how many rooms there are and what they’re for, Jaskier finds himself with nothing to do. The Witchers make idle conversation with him: mainly asking about the ballads he has written throughout the years. Eskel laughed into his cup during dinner. “I couldn’t go to any town in the south that didn’t have a bard singing one of your creations,” he said after gulping down a mouthful of ale.

“Imagine what it was like living with their creator,” Geralt mutters. Jaskier sends him an affronted look, but ultimately goes back to his own food. Something small and mumbled may slip past his lips about ungrateful Witchers and how he made them all famous, so they can keep their coin to themselves.

He strums a couple of chords, staring up at the wooden rafters above him. Inspiration has avoided him throughout the past couple of weeks. But then again, the Continent has enough of his songs circulating around. And Geralt was never short on contracts offered by most villages and towns they passed through. He only stopped taking them once they came into possession of Ciri. They had enough coin between them to take time off, making sure that the girl was safe.

In the time they took travelling to Kaer Morhen, they made sure that the coin they did have stretched as far as it would go. They stayed outside of cities and towns when they needed to – the road, although rough and cold, is safe when winter starts to roll in. They only bought food that they couldn’t hunt for themselves. Sometimes people would offer them a loaf of bread, or half a wheel of cheese; people that Geralt did jobs for once, still thinking that they needed to repay the Witcher as he passed by their homesteads.

The balcony looks out on to a large dirt courtyard. Some stables are nearby, with Roach and the others’ horses happily feasting on hay and oats. Training dummies stuffed with down-feathers, and with makeshift armour on their heads and chests stand at attention around the outside of a large dirt circle. In the middle of it, Ciri, armed with a wooden sword, watches Lambert teach her how to hold a blade properly.

Jaskier casually plucks at a few more strings, idly humming a tune to himself. Beside him, Geralt sits forward in his own chair, looking down at the courtyard.

Lambert nudges her foot with his. “Keep your feet anchored, lass,” he says, bending his own knees slightly. “If your centre is low, enemies have a hard time knocking you over.”

Ciri nods, mirroring the Witcher. It takes a couple of tries for her to navigate how to stand, how to step back, and fall into the stance again. It’s made even more difficult when Lambert reminds her that she has a sword in her hand – although wooden – and should be held in a certain way, and positioned correctly in front of her.

Jaskier makes a face. He can’t count the number of times he called Geralt’s sword fighting dancing. And it does look like it, even now. Ciri stumbles over herself occasionally, huffing when Lambert corrects her. It seems more complicated than what most people seem to do: grab a blade’s pommel as tightly as you can and just start swinging.

Geralt arches his neck, watching the girl and his brother closely. He doesn’t blink. Or at least, Jaskier doesn’t think he does. He looks at him out of the corner of his eye. A slow smile spreads over his lips. “If you’re that concerned about her getting hurt, then you really have to rethink about what you’re letting her do.”

Geralt makes a sound in the back of his throat. Jaskier sets his lute aside, reaching out for one of Geralt’s hands. The Witcher doesn’t pull away; he could if he wanted to, Jaskier always gives him the option to. But he smiles faintly at the way Geralt’s fingers lace with his, squeezing slightly. He still stares out on to the courtyard, watching both people down there like a hawk.

Jaskier traces idle, unrecognisable patterns over the back of Geralt’s hand.

Ciri manages to hold her own. She’s only been training with Lambert for a couple of days, but she takes to each lesson like a duck to water. Even when Lambert leaves, announcing that they’re done for the day, she stays behind; practising all that she’s learned by herself, or on the dummies around the arena.

At one particularly good strike to Lambert’s side, Jaskier hums. “She can hold her own,” he says firmly. Because, gods, she can.

Geralt angles his head. He doesn’t reply, but with how firmly he’s holding Jaskier’s hand, the bard can only imagine what’s going on in his head. Jaskier shuffles his chair closer to Geralt’s. “I imagine this is how parents feel,” he says softly. His fingers ghost over the back of Geralt’s hand, running over scarred knuckles.

“I’m not, though,” Geralt says after a time. “Her parent.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’s yours,” he says gently. His words won’t carry over to the arena; they’re too far away. But even still, he knows how sharp a Witcher’s hearing can be. And even if Lambert is currently occupied with teaching Ciri about where to strike on a body, Jaskier keeps his voice low just in case he listens in. “In a biological sense, no. You’re of no relation to her whatsoever. But family is more than blood.”

A soft hum leaves the Witcher.

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand. “You’re my family,” he says, “as is she. And I would gladly take this family over the family that shares blood with me.”

And he’s explained it all before; his life before meeting Geralt in that inn all those years ago. Geralt listened, offered soft words of sympathy and comfort at the rehashing of a particularly harsh memory being dredged up. But the people that share his blood and last name, they aren’t his family. His family is a Witcher and his child surprise.

Geralt jolts slightly at the sound of a thump echoing through the courtyard. Jaskier blinks, looking down at the dirt arena. He watches as Ciri scrambles back on to her feet, dusting gravel and dirt off of her breeches, and running at Lambert at full speed with her sword retracted over her head.

Yeah, Jaskier thinks, she can look after herself just fine.

The hand around his has tightened. Looking at Geralt out of the corner of his eye, he snorts at the scowl firmly etched on to his face. When Ciri is, predictably, knocked down again, the corner of Geralt’s lip lifts into a snarl. “Don’t kill him,” Jaskier mutters, leaning forward to press a kiss to the ridge of Geralt’s jawline. “I like Lambert. He actually laughs at my jokes.”

Winter rolls in silently. The winds gradually get colder, nipping at Jaskier’s skin whenever he steps outside, or if the balcony doors to their room are left open. Hearths in the main rooms of Kaer Morhen are kept lit. Each Witcher takes turns wandering out to a nearby forest to bring in wood for the fires. Another saving grace is the fact that the keep was built on some hot springs deep in the body of the mountain. The lower levels, where the baths are, are always humid. With how warm the keep is kept during the days and nights, he’d be forgiven for forgetting that winter had even settled in the first place.

When the first heavy snow slides down from the peaks of the mountains, it covers everything. The arena outside, where Ciri had spent most of her time, is unusable. That doesn’t mean her training stops, though. The library of the keep holds too many books for Jaskier to count. Most of them are anthologies: studies into different types of monsters, and how best to kill them. Others concern the history of different kingdoms on the Continent.

Geralt sits with her, explaining the differences between each monster she reads about. She pipes up with a question every so often, asking what actually the difference between a ghoul and an alghoul is. Jaskier tries to hide a small smile into his journal when Geralt shrugs, saying he doesn’t actually know, or think that a difference actually exists. The others agree with him.

They’re all gathered in one of the main living spaces. Eskel and Lambert are by the fire, warming themselves after seeing to the horses comfortably stabled outside. Jaskier sits nearby, writing down aimless scribbles into a journal. Inspiration has been fleeting in the past couple of weeks; which strikes him as strange. He’s in the home of Witchers. Surely something would inspire a story.

Vesemir walks into the room, securing his cloak around him. “I’m going to the market. I’ll be a few hours.” He glances over to Lambert. “Don’t try and kill each other while I’m gone, you hear?”

Lambert splays his hands, an affronted look flashing over his face. Before he can even open his mouth, Eskel jumps in. “We’ll manage.”

Vesemir hums, not entirely convinced.

Ciri’s head pops up from her book. “Can I come with you?” she asks earnestly, pushing the tome out of her way.

Vesemir gives her a small smile. “Not this time, lassie,” he replies. “When the snow thaws and the roads a bit safer, I’ll bring you then.”

Ciri sits back with a small huff. Geralt nudges the book back in front of her. It earns him a glowering look off of the girl.  

He gives them a gruff goodbye before heading out into the snow. Jaskier watches the door close behind him. “Will he be okay on his own?” he says, looking over to the gathering of Witchers dotted around the room.

Eskel snorts. “That old dog will outlive us all, lad,” he says, throwing another block of wood on to the fire. It spits and hisses, but eventually calms. Another blanket of quietness lies over the room.

It’s a comfortable one; one that doesn’t ask to be filled by pointless conversation or questions about the weather. Not the kind of silences Jaskier used to know in courts and taverns throughout the kingdoms. The Witchers by the fire seem happy enough to just watch the fire lick at the blocks. There’s a soft hum of conversation from Ciri and Geralt from across the room. Jaskier looks over to them every so often; watching with a faint smile how Geralt helps with her with the pronunciation of monster names and the ingredients for potions.

His heart swells.

Most mornings, he wakes alone. He’s grown used to the feel of a cooling or cold bed when he reaches out, knowing that Ciri has training in the morning with Geralt. What he learned, though, is that morning means as soon as the sun peeks over the mountain, when the goddamn birds haven’t even woken up yet.

But with snow still sitting over the keep, forcing everyone to stay inside for fear of freezing, now he wakes up to a warm figure behind him. Or on him. Or curled around him.

The first beams of morning light start to crawl over to the foot of the bed. Jaskier watches them, listening to the soft intake of breath behind him. Lying on his front, he’s effectively pinned to the bed, unable to move. Not that he would, of course. He likes Geralt claiming one side of his body as his personal pillow. He likes that the Witcher’s head is resting beside his, that his arm is flung over his back, curled around his waist.

He wouldn’t move even if the gods commanded it.

Pillowing his head on his arms, it’s the most amount of movement he can get away with. Geralt’s breathing changes slightly, but with a small snuffle against Jaskier’s shoulder blade, his hold on the bard tightens, and he settles again.

The hearth’s fire died at some point during the night. Embers and ashes are all that remains of it. Still, though, the room is warm. Most of that heat is because of the Witcher by his side. Even with a slowed heartbeat and a cold personality, at the best of times, Jaskier came to realise that the man is a walking inferno. And if Jaskier sits beside him, or can hold on to him during the night, he can keep just as warm as if he were sitting by a hearth.

And that’s...Jaskier blinks. That’s a good idea, actually. He lifts his head slightly, looking over to the nightstand. He always keeps a journal just out of arm’s reach. He’s had too many odd dreams in his past to not document them.

Lips suddenly press against his shoulder blade. “What are you doing?” Geralt rumbles.

“Preparing for my great return to the kingdoms’ musical scene,” Jaskier replies simply, jotting down a couple of lines for what he can only presume will be his next hit. An entire season has passed by without a new song; and lesser bards around the Continent will want to have more material to sing, and their patrons will want something new to hear.

The Witcher huffs what Jaskier can only assume is a laugh. Jaskier barely gets a sentence down on the page before he bristles at Geralt’s hand starting to wander. It skims over his side, fingers as light as anything, causing gooseflesh to break out in their wake.

When Geralt’s hand slips underneath him, edging very close to his cock, he makes a noise in the back of his throat. He manages to swat Geralt in the shoulder with his journal. “I’m not one to deny your advances, but just for a few minutes, could you please keep it to yourself. I’m busy.”

Geralt laughs against Jaskier’s skin. His hand doesn’t move too far away, settling on the bone of Jaskier’s hip instead. His thumb rubs gently over it, making unrecognisable patterns into the skin. Jaskier huffs, scribbling down a few more lines.

Throwing the journal on to the nightstand, Jaskier looks over his shoulder. “Now, what did you want?”

“You always say such romantic things to me.”

Jaskier turns, or at least, as much as he’s able with Geralt’s hold still on him. The Witcher eventually relents, letting Jaskier flop down on to his back and settle down against the pillows. “I’m busy,” he repeats. “I don’t go bothering you when you’re lecturing Ciri. I have to keep myself occupied somehow.”

Something flashes across Geralt’s face just then. It’s gone as soon as it appeared, but Jaskier blinks. He reaches up, dusting his fingertips along the ridge of Geralt’s jaw. The Witcher lifts his head with the movement. “Are you unhappy here?” he asks, with his voice nothing more than a hum.

“What? No. Gods, no.” The words leave him as quickly as a breath does. “No. I’m happy wherever you are. And Ciri. I just need to keep myself occupied while you’re both doing Witcher-y stuff, is all.”

“I could keep you occupied,” Geralt says. The faintest hint of a smirk starts pulling at the corner of his lip.

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier blinks, “I think that was very close to something of a joke. A lewd joke. I can’t wait to tell everyone that you have finally found a sense of humour.” A smile threatens to break out over his own face. One that’s firmly kissed away by Geralt.

A moan escapes him at the first trace of Geralt’s tongue against the seam of his lips. Gods only know how long they’re like that for, lips against each others, hands mapping out leagues of skin and muscle.

Jaskier threads his fingers into Geralt’s hair, tugging on it slightly. The Witcher grunts, pulling away from Jaskier’s lips. He rests their foreheads together for a moment, before leaning down and kissing Jaskier’s jaw.

“It’s late. Ciri will be wondering where you are,” Jaskier tries, but ultimately tilts his neck, letting Geralt scatter kisses down the length of it. He gasps when teeth start to scrape and nip. If he wants to keep bruises at bay, he’ll have to get it to stop now. Too many keen-eyed Witchers have already sussed out what it is he is to Geralt. He certainly doesn’t need to parade around with a necklace of hickeys – it’ll only stoke the fire.

Geralt’s hand drifts down to his leg, lifting and hooking it over his hip. “Eskel said that he’d take her this morning,” mumbles into Jaskier’s neck.

It’s a testament to how well their bodies know each other. When Geralt’s fingers slip inside him, drenched in oil gotten out of gods know where, it doesn’t take long for his body to part and give way. Jaskier’s head rolls back, heavy sighs and moans leaving him with every graze of fingers against that spot inside of him.

And gods if Geralt would let him, he would sing about this until every kingdom on the Continent collapsed. He would never, of course. The Witcher already threatened him many moon-turns ago that if he ever so much as breathed about their sex lives to anyone, there wouldn’t be a scrap of Jaskier left to find.

And it’s always in jest. He would never tell anyone. These moments are for them. So much of their lives changed the instant Ciri collided into it. But they’ll always have this.

When Geralt slips inside of him, every trace of breath escapes. “Fuck,” he swears, curling his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, holding him for a moment. It’s always on the right side of too much, the first time they join. No matter how many times they lie together.

Geralt rests their foreheads together. “You alright?” he breathes. It’s some sort of solace, knowing that he can affect Geralt just as much as he can affect him.

Jaskier nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you can move.”

Geralt doesn’t leave him. His hips rock against his, wrenching cut-off groans from the bard. His hold on Jaskier’s leg tightens. With a quick movement, he angles it to the side, letting him get deeper. Nails scrape along his back. Jaskier angles his hips slightly, making sure that the Witcher can get as deep as possible, and every second or third thrust grazes his prostate. They know each other too well: especially what to do to make the other person breathless.

Geralt’s teeth graze his neck. His arms slip underneath Jaskier, holding him close to his chest. Geralt flips them both, settling Jaskier over him as he lies back against the pillows.

Jaskier groans. The movement only gets Geralt’s cock deeper. He slumps forward slightly. Planting one hand beside Geralt’s head, his hips start to move of their own accord. Geralt’s hands find purchase there, not guiding him in any way, but just holding on.

A warm coil starts tightening in his core. He can feel it starting, and just wills it to hold off for a moment. He looks down at the Witcher stretched out underneath him; hooded eyes, a lazy smile ghosting his lips.

He doesn’t know how long they spend moving against and with each other. Jaskier’s heart leaps to his throat at the sound of movement in the hallway outside. Heavy footfalls of other Witchers leaving their bedrooms next door. Something must flash across his face, because Geralt huffs a light laugh. “They’ll hear you if you’re not careful, lark,” he grins.

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something, but it’s cut off into a sharp groan when Geralt fucks into him that bit harder. “Oh, you bastard,” he grits. It takes a couple of minutes for the hallway outside to get quiet again. And the second it does, a chorus of moans and grunts leave the both of them as Jaskier’s vision starts to blur around the edges. His core tightens and coils in on itself. He’s close, and looking down at the Witcher, he can tell that he’s near his end too.

“How do you want to come?” Geralt breathes, planting his feet to help thrust up into Jaskier that bit harder.  

“Oh gods, like this,” he sighs, leaning back and staring up at the canopy of the bed. Shivers tremble up throughout his body with every thrust down on to Geralt’s cock. It’s not enough and too much at once. “Fuck, like this. Make me come, please Geralt.”

The hands on his hip tighten, leaving what he hopes will be marks. Buried underneath his clothes, he won’t be able to move much without knowing what the damn Witcher did. And it sends shivers up through his spine.

He tightens around Geralt at a particularly well-aimed thrust to his prostate. His breath catches in his throat. Geralt sits up, gathering an arm around him and holding him close. His own cock is between them, red and leaking. Every brush of it against Geralt’s abdomen only sends him closer to the edge.

Jaskier loops his arms around Geralt’s shoulder, burying his face into Geralt’s neck. Every groan punched out of him with every thrust soaks into the skin there. When he comes, his vision whitens. His arms tighten around Geralt, holding him close as wetness spreads between the both of them.

Geralt follows not long after, with his hands at Jaskier’s hips holding him down as he fills the bard.

Geralt brings them both down to lie on to the bed. He slips out of the bard quickly, reaching out and fumbling for a shirt of his that he discarded at some point during the night. He cleans the both of them as best as he’s able, before tossing it aimlessly aside to some corner of the room. Jaskier’s breath slowly returns to him. When Geralt lies back against the pillows, lifting his arm, he crawls into the free space. He sighs at the slight thrum of soreness that goes through his lower spine.

“You’re a big softie, you know that?” Jaskier smiles as he settles against Geralt’s side. “Were you truly concerned about me wasting away in this keep?”

Fingertips run up and down each knob of his spine. A slight scrape of nail joins it. “It isn’t lost on me that you’re a bard in a keep of Witchers,” Geralt says slowly. “I worried that you might have felt alone.”

“A sheep among wolves,” Jaskier hums, resting his chin against Geralt’s chest. “I don’t feel alone. I’m with you, aren’t I?”

A small smile ghosts over Geralt’s face.

Jaskier knows the second the last of the snow has melted. He’s vaguely aware of a loud chorus of knocking against their bedroom door. He frowns, cover his eyes against the morning light coming in through the windows, and burrows back into his pillow. Geralt fairs slightly better, grunting awake and lifting his head, glaring daggers into the door. When the knocking continues, Geralt huffs and buries back underneath the blankets.

“Shouldn’t you get that?” Jaskier mumbles.

What he gets as an answer is a non-committal hum.

But Jaskier wakes fully to the door of their room suddenly flying open. “Geralt! Geralt! Geralt!” Ciri scrambles into the room, rushing over to the foot of their bed. Jaskier manages to move out of the way just in time for Ciri to all but launch herself on to the mattress.  

Geralt grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. “What are you doing so awake at this hour?” he rasps.

“It’s midday,” Ciri protests, pointing to the tall lancet windows. Jaskier opens his eyes as best as he’s able and, yeah, he’s met with bright skies and a sun sitting high up over the mountain’s peak. Ciri shoves at Geralt. “And the snow is gone! You promised that as soon as the snow is gone, you would take me out hunting with you.”

“I didn’t mean the very second it’s gone, Ciri,” Geralt sighs. He frees an arm from the blanket cocoon they have around each other. Reaching out, snagging Ciri’s waist with his arm, he brings the girl down to lie down in the sliver of free space between them. She tries to struggle out of his hold, using everything she’s learned from the others to try and get Geralt’s arm away from her. But ultimately, she collapses against the mountain of pillows by the headboard of the bed, huffing harshly.

“You promised,” she says, glancing up at him. Her eyes are wide, with the faintest hint of a pout to her lips.

Jaskier brushes some hair out of the girl’s face. It’s freshly washed; he can smell the orange blossom oils she always steals from him. Ever since she started her training, she’s worn her hair back in a simple braid. One that never survives from how intensely the girl insists on training. He smiles down at her. “Geralt is still keen on hibernating like a bear, I’m afraid, little swallow. If you want him out of bed, you should have brought food.”

Jaskier barely gets out of the way of a swatting hand from the other side of the bed.

Geralt loosens his grip on the girl. It gives her enough leeway to manage to sit up, resting her back against the headboard of the bed. “I’ve gotten better at pirouetting,” she says simply, fumbling with the fraying edge of her tunic. “I was hoping that I could show you today.”

Geralt blinks up at her. “If the arena hasn’t flooded with melted snow, you can show me everything the others have taught you.”

“But you’ll bring me hunting with you first, right?”

A small laugh escapes him. “Right.”

“Because Lambert says that we need more meat for the stores.”

“I know-”

“-And Eskel mentioned something about Lambert being bitchy when he’s hungry-”

“-Don’t swear-”

“-You swear all the time!”

Jaskier hides his laughter into his pillow, as best as he’s able. He rolls over to look over the edge of the bed. For the first time in a long time, sleep-clothes stayed on during the night. Sleep washed over them before anything managed to start. He spots one of his doublets nearby. Even with just an arm out, he can feel how cold the air is. And leaving the small fort of blankets both he and Geralt managed to construct for themselves during the night is not sitting well with him at all.

Ciri and Geralt continue to argue behind him as he grabs his doublet, quickly slipping it on before the cold can chill his bones. Even with the snow gone, the air still nips and bites. The keep juts out of a mountain. Thick forests and hills surround them in every direction. Being up so high means that the air is always cold and unforgiving, no matter how much the sun shines down.

Jaskier slips out of bed. He pads over to the other side of the room, grabbing his breeches and boots. Over his shoulder, he sees Geralt start the slow process of getting out of bed himself. Ciri hops down, adjusting her tunic and belt, synching it to her waist. Her wooden sword lies scattered at the foot of the bed. Geralt eyes it as he passes. “You better not treat your actual blades like that.”

Both he and Geralt dress quickly. The Witcher grabs his blades, strapping the sheathes to their normal position against his back. Ciri gathers her own sword, pinning it to her waist by her belt.

They pass Eskel and Lambert in the main gathering room, hauling in some wood for the fire. They stack it beside the stone hearth, content to leave it for a few hours. The hearth isn’t lit. The springs beneath the keep warm the walls with their steam.

The hunting party for the day is Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt, and Ciri. Vesemir is already outside, filling a quiver with arrows and hooking it to his waist. Three bows lie on a table near him. “Grab a bow and some arrows,” he glances up at the sky. “Who knows how long the weather stays like this.” Something akin to a smile flickers over Vesemir’s face as soon as Ciri rushes past, making a grab for a bow and quiver. Lambert gets there before her, holding the two objects up above her head, just out of reach.

A laugh bellows out of his chest. “If you want it, princess, get it off of me. You know how.”

Geralt is the last to join the party. He stays by Jaskier’s side, leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to the arch of Jaskier’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says.

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request for another kiss. It’s given to him as quickly as he asked for it. “Be careful,” he mumbles when they pull away.

Geralt shrugs a shoulder. “I have Ciri with me. I’m in safe hands.”

A sharp whistle cuts through the air. “None of that, now,” Lambert hollers at them, making a face at how close they’re standing. He’s still towering above Ciri, not budging no matter how hard she shoves at him. “We need to go while we still have the sun. Keep your canoodling to yourselves in your own time.”

Geralt flips him off.

The first time Ciri manages to land a hit on Geralt, Jaskier has to physically restrain himself from running out on to the arena dirt and hugging her with pride. 

There’s a slow trudge into spring. The days are steadily getting warmer, although cold winds still blow through the keep every so often. Geralt came back from the market one day with a cloak in his hand, saying that although the other Witchers could handle the cold, he couldn’t stand by and let his lark shiver for one more second.

Jaskier tugs it tighter around himself, warding off the cold. His fingers are fine though, strumming a few chords on his lute. The occasional screech of a blade on whetstone joins him. Eskel is nearby, sharpening the last of his blades. But he stops whenever Jaskier’s couple of chords become lines of music. Whenever the bard mumbles a few lines, testing how they taste and sit in his mouth, Eskel keeps quiet.

Geralt and Ciri keep practising, though. She was telling the truth when she barged into their room yesterday. She’s gotten much better at pirouetting. It’s like the water dancers he used to watch as a child, whenever his father had them commissioned to perform at a party or feast. He spends half of his time playing his lute, while the other half glancing up and watching the lesson take place in front of him. Ciri dodges every strike Geralt lunges at her. She deflects every swing of a sparring sword. She doesn’t fall over or stumble, but roots her feet into the ground, like Lambert taught her to do before the snow came.

She twirls on one foot, bringing her sword around and deflecting another swing from Geralt. She grunts with the force of it. She ducks and weaves, a fierce look etching into her face with every step she has to take back to avoid getting hit with Geralt’s sparring sword.

Whether intentionally or not, Geralt makes a mistake. He draws back a bit too much for a swing, leaving his front open for attack. Ciri is quick. Before Geralt’s arm can go all the way back, drawing for an attack, Ciri lunges: jutting the edge of her sword into his chest. The point of it stops just shy of his body.

Geralt stands stock still. Arms splayed out on either side. A yield.

If it were a real fight, with real steel, she could just lunge forward and pierce Geralt’s chest. From where the tip of her sword is pointing, it’s aimed right at his heart. She could ever knick a lung on the way in.

And he’s not sure if the thought sits well with him or not. He’s proud of her. She’s learned so much over such a short space of time.

But every so often, something hits him in the stomach. The mortality of everything: Ciri is learning how to fight, but also how to protect herself. She needs to protect herself against people who would do her harm.

“Well done lassie,” Eskel calls out, shaking him from his thoughts.

Jaskier offers her a small smile when she glances over to them. “Very well done.”

He’s not going to sit here and say that it doesn’t make him feel some sort of pride to see her landing a strike – a deadly strike – to Geralt. Watching at how quickly excitement bubbles to the surface makes his heart swell: even when she tries to tame it, brushing some hair back behind her ear, and taking up her stance again. Geralt lifts his chin. “Best of three,” he says, lunging for her again.

Eskel nudges him with his foot. “I know that look,” he says softly, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Jaskier looks down at the lute in his hands, at the strings his fingers gently pluck at. “It’s nothing.”

Eskel snorts. “Aye. And I’m king of a southern holdfast.” A quiet moment settles over them for a moment. Jaskier’s dimly aware of Eskel still staring at the side of his head. He ignores the Witcher, going back to strumming a few notes and jotting down words that come to mind. It’s all nonsense. The page will be ripped out and burned the second Eskel is gone.

The Witcher sets one of his swords to the side, tossing the whetstone on to a nearby table. “I had one too, you know,” he says after a time. He nods over to Ciri. “A child surprise.”

Jaskier flattens his hand over the lute’s strings, stopping their sound. “What?”

Eskel’s brow lifts. “Geralt never told you?”

He shakes his head.

Eskel sits back in his chair, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. The forge is nearby, spitting embers and warming their backs. “I got one just like Geralt did: by asking prompting magic I didn’t understand. I saved a knight once. He was in a spot of bother, and I helped him. He was so grateful, he said I could have whatever I wanted.” Eskel huffs a light laugh. “I didn’t want anything. Well, coin would have been useful. Or food, or a place to sleep for the night. But this knight was a noble of some hold west of the Kestrel Mountains. He was pretty fucking insistent that I ask for more. And I heard Vesemir asking for things before. The wording always struck me as odd.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Give me that which you find at home, yet do not expect. I want to find whatever god strung that sentence together and give them a clip ‘round the ear. What horseshit that line is. You could get anything from it: a bottle of milk, straight from the cow outside, to a fucking child.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. “Geralt was just as shocked as you,” he says slowly. “When he realised what he did. What he asked for.”

Eskel snorts. “I can only imagine.”

Ciri continues to dance around the other Witcher. Geralt lands a hit on her, brushing her shoulder with his sparring sword.

Eskel hums. “Though I think Geralt got off lucky with getting that girl,” he says lowly, leaning forward to settle his arms over his knees. “He could have done much worse.”

Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean?”

After a quiet moment, Eskel gestures to his face. A trident of scars runs down one side, from the crown of his head to the jut of his chin. They look old, long-since healed over, but stand out against the Witcher’s otherwise pale skin. “My surprise child. Deirdre. She had blood like wildfire, that one.”

Eskel looks out on to the courtyard, though his gaze doesn’t settle on anything specific. “She had a temper like nothing I’ve ever seen. She could be perfectly fine one moment, and brandishing a blade at you the next. I never blamed her for it. The second that girl was born underneath a black sun, everything had been against her.”

Jaskier looks down at the ground. Geralt told him a story many moons ago – how he got the name of the Butcher of Blaviken. A sorcerer Jaskier wishes he could kill himself, trying to hire Geralt to kill a girl on whispers of a prophecy.

“She lived here for a time,” Eskel continues, looking down at his hands. They’ve blackened from the coals of the forge. “I didn’t know where else to take her. But she lashed out one day, cut my face into what it is now, and disappeared. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Jaskier swallows. “How long ago was it?”

Eskel lifts a shoulder. “Couple of decades, I think. When your lifespan increases like ours, you tend to lose track of time.”

Jaskier hums. Another thud sounds from the arena. Glancing over, he offers a small smile to Ciri when she announces that she was able to hit Geralt again – in the abdomen this time.

“When I heard Geralt had managed to get saddled with a child surprise,” Eskel sighs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “Gods, I would have given anything to have seen the look on his face. But now I see her, and how he is with her, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what it’s meant to be like.”

“If it’s of any consolation,” Jaskier says quietly, “you’re part of her family too. All of you.”

Their training is called for the day. Ciri rushes over to the sheltered forge, slightly out of breath with small beads of sweat dotted over her forehead. “I finally beat Geralt,” she says, taking up a seat next to Jaskier when he frees up some space for her.

Jaskier presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Good. Maybe you’ll be the one to finally beat some sense into him."

[knifeonmars]

Capsule Reviews, February 2021

Here's some things I've been reading.

The Curse of Brimstone 

DC's New Age of Heroes books, emerging from the beginning of Scott Snyder's creative-flameout-as-crossover-event Metal, mostly constituted riffs on Marvel heroes like the Fantastic Four (in The Terrifics) or the Hulk (in Damage). The Curse of Brimstone is a riff on Ghost Rider. It's... uneven. The first volume is generally pretty good, and when Phillip Tan is drawing it, as he does the first three and a half issues, it's gorgeous and unique, when he departs though, the quality takes a nose dive. None of the replacement artists, including the great Denis Cowan, can quite fill his shoes, and the story gets old fast. Guy makes a deal with the devil (or rather, a devil-like inhabitant of the "Dark Multiverse" as a not horribly handled tie-in to the conceits of Metal), realizes it's a raw deal, and rebels. The characters are flat, lots of time is spent with the main character's sister haranguing him to not use his powers (it is, in my humble opinion, something of a cardinal sin to have a character whose primary role is telling other characters to stop doing interesting things), too many potboiler "I know you're still in there!/I can feel this power consuming me!" exchanges, a couple of underwhelming guest spots (including a genuinely pointless appearance by the old, white, boring Doctor Fate) too many flashbacks, and not enough of the action. There's potential in the classic demonic hero rebelling plotline and its link to the liminal spaces of the DC universe, forgotten towns and economic depression, but the wheels come off this series pretty much as soon as Tan leaves. The really disappointing this is that the series is clearly built as an artistic showcase, so after Tan's shockingly early departure, the main appeal of the series is gone and there's nothing left but the playing out of an obviously threadbare story.

Star Wars - Boba Fett: Death, Lies, and Treachery

I don't care much about Star Wars these days, and I think that most of the old Expanded Universe was, as evidenced by Crimson Empire, pretty bad. Death, Lies, and Treachery, is that rare Star Wars EU comic which is actually good. John Wagner writes and he's in full-on 2000 AD mode, writing Boba Fett as a slightly more unpleasant Johnny Alpha (who is like a mercenary Judge Dredd, for those unfamiliar) right on down to the appearance of a funny alien sidekick for one of the characters. The main attraction is Cam Kennedy's art though, along with his inimitable colors: this might be the best looking Star Wars comic ever. The designs are all weird and chunky, with an almost kitbashed feeling that captures the lived in aesthetic of classic Star Wars, and the colors are one of a kind. Natural, neutral white light does not exist in this comic, everything is always bathed at all times in lurid greens or yellows, occasionally reds, and it looks incredible. In terms of "Expanded Universe" material for Star Wars, this hits the sweet spot of looking and feeling of a piece, but exploring the edges of the concept with a unique voice. It's great. I read this digitally, but I'd consider it a must-buy in print if I ever get the chance at a deal.

Zaroff

Zaroff is a French comic (novel? novella?). It's like 90 pages and it delivers exactly on its premise of "Die Hard starring the bad guy from The Most Dangerous Game." It's pretty good. Count Zaroff, he of the habitual hunting of humans, turns out to have killed a mafia don at some point, and after miraculously escaping his own seeming death at the end of the original story, finds himself hunted by the irate associates of this gangster, who have brought along Zaroff's sister and her kids to spice things up. Zaroff not only finds himself the hunt, but he also has to protect his estranged family as they struggle to survive. Nothing about this book or its twists and turns is likely to surprise you, but I don't think being surprised is always necessary for quality. Zaroff delivers on pulpy, early-20th century jungle action, is gorgeously rendered, and the fact that Zaroff himself is an unrepentant villain adds just enough of an unexpected element to the proceedings and character dynamics that it doesn't feel rote. There's a couple of points, ones typical of Eurocomics, which spark a slight sour note, such as some "period appropriate" racism and flashes of the male gaze, but for the most part these are relatively contained. It's good.

Batman: Gothic

Long before Grant Morrison did their Bat-epic, they wrote Batman: Gothic, an entirely different, but then again maybe not so different, kind of thing. It starts off with what must be called a riff on Fritz Lang's film, M, only where that story ends with a crew of gangsters deciding they cannot pass moral judgment on a deranged child-murderer, in Morrison's story they go ahead and kill him, only for the killer to return years later to rather horribly murder all of them as a warmup for a grandiose scheme involving unleashing a weaponized form of the bubonic plague on Gotham City as an offering to Satan. Along the way it turns out that said villain, one Mr. Whisper, is a former schoolmaster of Bruce Wayne's, who terrified the young Batman in the days before his parent's deaths. It's an earlier Morrison story and it shows. Certain elements presage their later Batman work; Mr. Whisper as a satanic enemy recalls the later Doctor Hurt, and the cathedral Mr. Whisper built to harvest souls recalls what writers like Morrison, Milligan, and Snyder would do concerning Gotham as a whole years later.The art, by Klaus Janson, is spectacular. If you're familiar at all with his work collaborating with Frank Miller you'll see him continuing in a similar vein and it's all quite good, even when he stretches beyond the street milieu which most readers might know him from. There's one particular sequence where Janson renders a needlessly complicated Rube Goldberg machine in motion that manages to work despite being static images. The writing by Morrison though, is not their finest. The M riff doesn't last as long as it could, and Mr. Whisper's turn in the latter half of the story from delicious creepy wraith to a cackling mass murderer who puts Batman in an easily escaped death trap feels like something of a letdown from the promise of the first half of the book. Gothic is good, but not, in my opinion, great. It's certainly worth checking out for Morrison fans however, and I imagine that someone well-versed in his latter Batman stuff might be able to find some real resonance between the two.

Green Arrow: The Longbow Hunters

For a long, long time, Longbow Hunters was THE Green Arrow story. It is to Green Arrow as TDKR is to Batman, deliberately so. Mike Grell wrote and drew the reinvention of the character from his role as the Justice League's resident limousine liberal to a gritty urban vigilante operating in Seattle over the course of these three issues, which he'd follow up with a subsequent ongoing. Going back to it, it certainly merits its reputation, but its far from timeless. Grell's art is unimpeachable absolutely incredible, with great splashes and spreads, subtle colors, and really great figure work. The narrative is almost so 80's it hurts though, revolving around West Coast serial killers, cocaine, the CIA and the Iran-Contra scandal, and the Yakuza, and it's hard to look back at some of this stuff without smirking. The story begins with a teenager strung out on tainted coke sprinting through a window in a scene that's right out of Reefer Madness. In the cold light of a day 30+ years later, parts of it look more than a little silly. The 80's-ness of it all doesn't stop with that stuff though, even the superhero elements smack of it. Green Arrow realizes that he's lost a step and has be to be shown a way forward by an Asian woman skilled in the martial arts (recalling Vic Sage's reinvention in the pages of The Question), and Black Canary gets captured and torture off-panel for the sake of showing that this is real crime now, not the superhero silliness they've dealt with before. The treatment of Black Canary here is pretty markedly heinous, it's a classic fridging and Grell's claims that he didn't intentionally imply sexual assault in his depiction of her torture is probably true, but still feels more than a little weak considering how he chose to render it.The final analysis is that this book is good, but it exists strictly in the frame of the 1980's. If you're a fan of Green Arrow, there are worse books to pick up, or if you're interested in that era of DC Comics it's more than worth it, but as a matter of general interest I wouldn't recommend it very highly.

SHIELD by Steranko

Jim Steranko is sort of the prodigy of the early Marvel years, a young guy who came up through the system, blossomed into an incredible talent, and then left the company, and by and large the industry, behind. He would go on to dabble in publishing, work in other mediums, and generally kick around as the prodigal son of Marvel Comics. This collection, of both his Nick Fury shorts in the pages of Strange Tales and the four issues he drew of the original Nick Fury solo series, charts Steranko's growth as an artist. The book starts off with Steranko working from Jack Kirby's layouts with Stan Lee's dialogue and writing, and Steranko might be the one guy in history for whom working off of Kirby's blueprints is clearly holding him back. The first third or so of this collection really isn't much to write home about, as Steranko is obviously constrained by someone else's style, and at the end of the day those early stories still read as somewhat uninspired pulp compared to the highlights of early Marvel. There are flashes though, of techniques and ideas, which foreshadow what Steranko is capable of, and when he finally takes over as solo writer/artist it's like he's been unleashed. He immediately has Nick Fury tear off his shirt and start throwing guys around over psychedelic effects. He writes out most of Kirby and Lee's frankly uninspired boys' club supporting cast, he makes Fury visibly older, wearier, but also so much cooler. It's the birth of Nick Fury as a distinctly comic book super spy.By the time he finishes wrapping up the previous writers' plotline with Hydra and Baron von Strucker, Steranko is firing on all cylinders. By the time it gets to Steranko's Fury solo series, he's somehow surpassed himself, turning in effects, panel structures, and weird stories which make the earlier installment about a suit-wearing Man from UNCLE knockoff and its strict six-panel layouts look absolutely fossilized.I can't recommend this collection highly enough for any fan of the artform, even if the stories themselves might not be everyone's cup of tear. It's truly incredible to watch Steranko emerge as an artist over the course of this single collection. The book itself has a few problems, it's not the most elegantly designed in its supporting materials and index, but the content of it more than outweighs that. It's great stuff.

[1800gotspook]

The Death of a Millionaire

Summary: "If you were to ask Amity's teens about the house, most will tell you it's haunted. You will hear a hundred stories, a tangle of rumors about who lived there." A young resident of Amity park digs into Urban Legends and discovers the greatest mystery surrounding the town.

For the DannyMay2020 prompt “horror” although it’s probably more “creepypasta” esque.

[Read on AO3]

If you drive south down Grimme Road you'll eventually reach the end of the street. Past the City Hall, past Casper High, past the power plant. At the end of the road, turn left and keep driving. You will eventually find a road that borders the woods. Follow that road. It slowly becomes less and less structured, lacking maintenance. Cracked by the roots of trees. Littered with potholes and chunks of concrete. Any street lights left are no longer powered by the city. You will regret if you came at dark.

Driving far enough down that battered road, the trees will thin out. Ahead on the right you will find a wide open property. A tall, intricate, wrought iron fence circling a vast, overgrown yard. Rolling hills of what was probably once lush green grass, now covered in unkempt bushes and weeds, stretching over a brick driveway, even more crumbled than the road you entered on. Weeds and vines peeking up through the cracks. No sign of human intervention in at least thirty years.

Keeping you from trespassing is nothing more than a pointy steel gate. Large enough for vehicles to pass through. The chains holding it shut are probably easy to pull apart. Break the rusty links and force the long-dormant hinges to whine. But you have no interest stepping on this property.

Looking up the drive, you can see the stone path just barely through the weeds. Winding up and around the land to reach its focal point: the house. You could even call it a mansion. Elegant brick laid outside. Once expensive drapery, now bleached a sickly yellow by the sun, sits in the windows. Even the front door, although dusty and rotted, exhibits an air of refinement.

If you were to ask Amity's teens about the house, most will tell you it's haunted. You will hear a hundred stories, a tangle of rumors about who lived there. No matter how peculiar, entertaining, or sensible the stories become, they never quite answer my question:

Why would a person like this, with so much class and so much money, choose to live in Amity Park?

During my research into Amity Park records, I discovered that the house actually belonged to a once renowned millionaire by the name of Vlad Masters. For most of his adult life, he resided in an even larger home. Not just a mansion, but a castle, you could say. This original home was in Madison, Wisconsin. In 2006,he suddenly decided to move to Amity Park, shortly after his election as mayor. That's right. A completely unrelated millionaire from Wisconsin, despite never stepping foot in Amity Park, was elected mayor. This brings up some questionable thoughts, doesn't it? Was he really, legitimately elected?

After his election, it appears he took no real action for the betterment of Amity, except to establish a myriad of anti-ghost protection measures. Long after his death, he was discovered to be involved in many scandals. All the more proving that his election wasn't short of the same. But how he could pull that off? That may never be known.

Investigators never uncovered his true intentions for becoming mayor. Was he just crazy? Power hungry? Was this all a part of some big plan?

The most baffling mystery, however, is what brought Masters to his death.

He lived alone. His body was only found after his several absences from mayoral duties. Nobody was able to contact him. A poor secretary found him eighteen hours later. She said he was covered in burns all up and down his body. Face barely recognizable.

Along with those injuries, scorch marks were peppered all over the study where he was. Investigators said each burn in the room showed signs of explosion on impact, as if someone had accidentally set off a batch of fireworks indoors. However, there were no signs of combustible material anywhere. No scraps or gunpowder. No ashes, no paper shavings. No chemical traces. No debris or fuel at all. The source of the explosions entirely a mystery. If Vlad Masters was attacked, the assailant's trails were expertly covered.

It must have been deliberate. Investigators were sure of that. Despite the scorch marks all over the room, his body was most prominently burned. He was clearly the target of the explosions.

Yet the burns aren't what killed him. According to autopsy reports, his heart had stopped, independent of the little fireworks. There were also no signs of Vlad Masters having previous heart conditions, yet arrhythmia was most likely the cause.

Some detectives in the papers considered the possibility that Masters was electrocuted. It could explain some of the burn marks on his body. But that fell through, as other damages to his body and room went unexplained.

Months after the electrocution theory, more information was uncovered. Because of his bodily reaction to the injuries, they were actually discovered to be chemical burns. They still couldn't figure out what exactly had burned him, as there was no sign of residue or foreign substances to be found.

Further investigation of his injuries was cut short. Curiously, the body could no longer be studied after the initial autopsy. For some reason, each time they tried, results grew more and more inconsistent than the last. Certain burns on his body from previous tests could no longer be found. Each time they tried to study his body, there was less and less to examine. It was almost like he was reverting back. Like his body was healing.

Some say that his body was completely back to a perfect condition by the end of the week. Some say that his funeral was open casket. They say if you went to the funeral, you could walk up and feel his ice cold skin. Not a sign of the burns. If you looked at his face, you could see the hint of a smirk, forever plastered there. Unable to be broken. Unable to be moved by his muscles. They no longer carried blood. No longer kept warm by a beating heart. Stuck grinning about his own mysterious fate.

They searched his house thoroughly in an attempt to uncover anything about his death. Any hint of a struggle. Signs of an ex-friendship. A piece of hate mail. Something to give them a lead. They couldn't even find evidence of an intruder in his house. Masters had security cameras surveying the yard, yet not a single one picked up another being. Not the day of the incident, nor for weeks leading up to it.

Despite all of this security, Masters only ever monitored the outside of his home. He was clearly a secretive man if he was willing to sacrifice safety for privacy.

Investigators searched for alternative entrances to his home and made a shocking discovery. A lever in the study. When pulled, the bookcase made a click, then slowly opened inward. Behind this new doorway, a staircase to the basement. With no other apparent entrances. Some old laboratory. Banged up equipment that once had various uses. Syringes and test tubes, all sterile and unused. Large contraptions with several sleek levers and buttons, never labelled. Investigators peeled the contraptions apart to discover each one empty. Core identifying structures like computer chips and motors were removed, leaving only a shell behind. Horrifyingly, some of these shells resembled guns. But they weren't quite guns. Some resembled household appliances. One looked like a high-end toaster. Its sleek exterior in porcelain white. No power cord, but a hole in the side where a charger might go.

There were also strange containment pods and large glass boxes, fit for an aquarium. They lined the walls at one end of the spacious room, also missing any identifying features.

At the other end of the room, a gaping cavern, easily twelve feet long. Lined with steel, and a few holes at the entrance. But once again, nothing could be derived but more confusion and open-ended theories.

Computer system: destroyed. File cabinet: empty. Fingerprints: besides Master's? Nonexistent.

Acidic substances littered the floor. Broken vials and common chemicals corroding away at the sleek tile. Some substances were entirely unrecognizable.

One common theory: Masters experimented with chemicals, and got carried away, getting himself killed in the process.

But I refuse to believe that after all his misdeeds there wouldn't be someone after him. Somebody to kill him. Somebody who learned the ins and outs of his mansion, and took every precaution. Someone who wanted to destroy his lab. Whatever work he was doing, it was unlikely to be for a good cause.

The police asked Amity for help. If someone knew anything about this case, they would be grateful.

Living in what was once the most haunted town, many people wondered if ghosts were involved in the incident. Local ghost experts who were old friends of Masters decided to help. After obtaining plentiful details and performing endless studies, the ghost experts concluded that spectral entities were not involved in the incident. It wasn't possible. Ghosts always announced their misdeeds. If ghosts were the cause, Amity would have known of Masters' death instantly, and exactly who was to blame. The ghost experts could not identify the unknown substances.

Is it possible that because these ghost experts knew Masters personally, that they chose to withhold information. Yes, it is a considerable theory. But still, why would a ghost target Masters specifically? Because he conducted anti-ghost measures for the city? Even so, it's no question that Vlad Master had a ghost shield on his property. It simply isn't plausible to assume a ghost could attack him that easily.

Some argue Masters' death was his own doing, whether an accident or not. Others claim the government, or a secretive organization, chose to eliminate him. Remove Amity Park from his clutches. Would the government really be involved but create such a baffling mystery? Why would the police beg the town for answers? Yet another addition to this elaborate mystery.

Angela,

Let me know how this essay reads for you. I've been studying urban legends of the town for a while now, and I compiled a lot of stuff to write this. I want to release it to the entirety of Amity (and the world) but I don't know where to post it and if it will be taken seriously. You know how much I love this kind of stuff. I trust you. So please please please do not share.

Riley

[nunonabun]

#33 Turnadette

#33 …forcefully.

A few kettles on the stove to close things out ;)

The stalwart, wind-lashed church reminded her powerfully of her childhood home. Though it was on the other side of the country, the rolling hills and jutting rock were unsettlingly familiar. The warm but guarded locals were ghosts of her girlhood, their musical Gaelic substituted for the rolling Doric she’d tried so hard to suppress in herself. 

As they entered the lofty, communal space, her first thought was of privacy. She’d certainly had enough of that as a child, but as a married woman with small children, it was a precious commodity. And there were some elements of her life she preferred that her colleagues and former sisters not think about. 

It came as a relief then, to find there were in fact separate rooms they would reside in, and that they were reassuringly thick-walled.

The narrow window in their bedroom overlooked the little town. It was unlike her hometown, the roads here were unpaved, the houses overlooking the magnificent vista of the Atlantic. Besides that, their cold stone remained dull in the sunlight, unlike the sparkling granite that was so characteristic of the North-East. And yet it felt so much like Inverurie, this small, self-reliant, self-contained Scottish ecosystem. A creeping unease came over her, a ridiculous feeling that when she turned in for the night, she would close her eyes and re-open them in her bed in Inverurie, in the little flat above her father’s grocery. Other memories joined them as she saw the cross that hung above the single, narrow bed, of a shore far down South this time. 

The memories grew with the dusk, becoming clearer as the light faded into the sea and she found herself immobilized, staring off into the past. Patrick wrapped his arms around her from behind, startling her in his attempt to provide comfort. 

He rested his cheek against her head. “How do you feel about all of this?”

“I’m not quite sure,” she answered honestly. “I feel much more than I thought I would, but I can’t quite sort it all out.”

She stroked his arm, and leaned back into him, wanting to forget this complicated contemplation for a while and focus on simpler, more pleasurable elements of their current situation. 

“Are you sure?” His voice was low, the smile she could feel as he kissed her neck conveying his feelings on the matter.  

Shelagh turned and pulled him to her, wanting only the fierce joy they could create together.

Patrick matched her energy, eagerly allowing her to propel him back onto the bed, running his hands up her smooth thighs as she ground against him. A shiver ran through her at the idea of what she was about to do within the walls of a church. She would never have done this in any of the religious buildings she had lived in as Sister Bernadette, or as Shelagh Mannion. But she had never been here before. This was not sacrilegious, but it was close enough to be thrilling. Close enough to indulge in the present without profaning the past. 

Patrick unbuttoned her flannel nightgown with practiced ease, leaving it on to shield her from the damp chill of the old building, but opening it enough the he could freely worship her body. She held him to her, murmuring encouragements and endearments as she drew him into her. She focussed her mind on every tingling nerve that illuminated her body, every sharp breath and guttural moan that told her her husband was doing the same. 

Here in this austere building, she revelled in the feel of Patrick’s lean muscles straining against hers, the bliss of being so fully aware of her body that there was no space in her consciousness for anything else, save his body. His intentions matched hers, joining her in dancing to the edge of the precipice and stepping back until the wave came to sweep them out to sea. 

They curled into each other, sharing their warmth and comfort. They hadn’t been able to do this last time they were away, it had been too hot. Now they drifted to sleep, lazily, reverently stroking their hands along the familiar contours of their lover’s body, their self-generated heat lulling them into the inviting darkness.

[wildernessuntothemselves]

Oppa Knows Best | Part 1

Word Count: 6k Genre: Smut, Angst Summary:  If there is anything a lot of people can agree on when it comes to college, it’s that college is about much more than just education; it’s a whole transformative experience.  The person you were before college is not the same person you will be after college, and no one knows the truth of that statement quite like you do. You just didn’t expect to change so much so fast. A/N: this is like my fifth friends to lovers story and there is no sign of me stopping any time soon lmao  Warnings: This story contains a very unbalanced power dynamic between the two main characters that is unhealthy and shouldn’t be tolerated irl. If someone treats you this way irl please run. This is a fictional story and the plot is basically just a vehicle for the smut. Contains slutshaming and controlling behavior. Also the dirty talk is painfully corny and pornolike so be warned lol. Oppa kink if it wasn’t obvious.

Even though you and Jaehyun were only one year apart in age, he had always babied you, to the extent that the one year you were forced to be apart for the first time since you came onto this earth—on account of him beating you to college first—you spent it lost and adrift like a puppy trying to find its way back to its owner.  

Which was completely ridiculous and melodramatic since, during that year you spent apart, Jaehyun never let a day go by in which you didn’t talk to each other. He called or texted you every single day no matter how busy he got and basically kept in better contact with you than even your school friends whom you saw every day. But still, his physical presence was something else. When it came time for you to go to college, there was no question about which one you’d choose, and he didn’t even bother to ask before bringing you all the papers that you would need in order to apply to the same college he attended. He guided you every step of the way lest you make any mistake and get rejected, and before you knew it, you were under your guardian angel’s wings again. Everything was as it should be. Your world was back on track. All the pieces fell—wait, what did he say? He thinks you should get some space from him? What the fuck is he on? You had this whole thing planned ever since you were little kids, and he seemed to be fully on board with that plan up until now. Isn’t that the entire reason you were here?  

“I’ve been on your back ever since you were born, but this is college, angel. You’re supposed to let loose a little and experience new things, and you can’t do that if I’m always around you like a second shadow. You’re on the same campus as me so I can still get to keep an eye on you and keep you safe. I don’t need to be your roommate too and be all up in your business all the time. You need a little space to grow and discover yourself.” 

He had explained it all so eloquently, so maturely; it made you want to gag. Who the fuck said you wanted space? It sure as hell wasn’t you. The entire reason you chose this college was so you can re-suture your hip to his and never separate again. If you had wanted space, there were a million other places you could’ve gone to instead of here. His whole explanation sounded like bullcrap to you, and it was just so unlike him. Your Jaehyun, Mr. overprotective in the flesh, telling you that he should back off and let you get loose? Yeah, you’re calling bullshit on this.

It didn’t take you long to find out the real reason why he refused to room with you, and it was just so typical, you actually burst out laughing in spite of the pain when you had caught him red-handed. You see, Jaehyun has developed a curious little womanizing streak in your absence. It was both unexpected and entirely predictable. Jaehyun was a man after all, and he had spent his whole life being the exemplary good boy who every mother wished her son would be more like. The only girl he interacted with beyond some cordial, totally neutered socialization was you, and you can unfortunately testify that your relationship was nothing more than an older brother-little sister type of thing. So of course odds were that he would give in to his physical needs eventually, and they say that the more repressed you were, the more freaky the meltdown gets.   To his credit, he tried to shield innocent, little you from his promiscuous ways, but alas, he was doomed to fail from the start. You just can’t hide your rendezvous when you’ve gone through half the student body already. Yup, shit sure got freaky. You wouldn’t have been nearly as crushed about this new development if it weren’t for how stupidly in love with him you are. Yes, stupid, dumb, idiotic you had to be every fucking cliché in the book and go and fall in love with your handsome, charming best friend who, of course, saw you as nothing other than a little sister. It was easy to delude yourself back home where your entire world was only a few blocks wide and Jaehyun’s sole attention was on you, but now he has dozens of beautiful women willing to warm his bed every night, and he’s burning through them like he was hell-bent on making up for the years of celibacy he had endured back home. Still you had enough sense of humor and self-awareness to laugh your ass off at the look on his face when you busted him. For a hot second, he tried to claim that the woman he was in bed with, who he didn’t even know the last name of, was his girlfriend and not the night’s flavor. You had sat there and listened to him dig himself into a progressively bigger hole until his partner finally cracked from the awkwardness and exposed his ass.

As much as you wanted to hate him for lying to you and, most importantly, for being with anyone who wasn’t you, you really couldn’t. He remained the same Jaehyun you’ve always known, always around and always there for you. He never let you down. It’s just that you now knew he wasn’t some kind of pure angel, but a grown man with needs and a very healthy sexual appetite. You could no longer continue to live in a fantasy world of your making where he was going to proclaim his love for you any minute now so you can go on and live the happily ever after you’ve been promised by every movie ever. You couldn’t even go the easy route and hate the women he slept with, call them sluts and whores and claim you’re so much better than them. Truth is, if you were in their place, you would’ve slept with him too. Who wouldn’t? He’s handsome and sweet and smart and the sun shines out of his ass. Any girl would be lucky to have him even if just for a night. You could only wish you were so lucky.     But despite how so uncharacteristically rational you were about this whole thing—and you gotta admit, you were damn proud of yourself for it—it was all still so surreal, and that feeling, that weird emptiness that came to reside in your chest in place of the fanciful love that once bloomed there, couldn’t be shaken off by any number of rational arguments or self-reflection. And you didn’t know what you had to do to fill that void so it wouldn’t swallow you whole.   It messed with your head sometimes, the emptiness; it told you that this was all his fault. It said that he had tricked you into wasting your life on him, that he purposefully fed into your delusion by the inordinate amount of attention and love he lavished on you. It spoke to you of how differently your life could’ve been if you had known how he felt from the start. For one, you wouldn’t have planned your whole life around him. And now you were stuck, forced to keep living in the ghost town you had built for him. So, desperate enough to take another page out of the book of clichés you so loved, you decided that since your years worth of love for him couldn’t possibly be replaced by the tepid, superficial affections that came with crushes and brand new relationships, you were just gonna have to go old school and fuck the bad feelings away. And surprisingly, it worked. For a couple of months, you attended every party on campus you could get into and refused to head home until you had someone in toe. It was awkward at first, for someone with zero experience like yourself, but you had lost the love of your life and were determined to find even a little bit of pleasure in this hell you suddenly found yourself thrown into. That determination paid off, and soon, you were floating high off your sexual awakening and all the new kinds of pleasure that came with it. Before coming to college, you never really thought about sex all that much, just the occasional guilty session where you’d rub one out to the thought of Jaehyun’s hands on you and him telling you what to do like he always did in real life. But those were few and far between and you always felt bad about it afterwards. Now it was entirely different. You reveled in your encounters. It felt good to allow yourself to feel pleasure and share it with someone who genuinely desired you. You got off on it—the effect you had on your partners. Contrary to how your dynamic was and is with Jaehyun, you were shocked to discover how much you enjoyed being the one in control every once in a while. It was much more than just sex to you, it was like discovering a whole other aspect of yourself that you never knew existed and would’ve never known about had Jaehyun not broken your heart. You were enjoying yourself and experiencing new things, just like he told you to, so it was just so fucking hilarious to see him right now, angry and pissed off at you for following the very same advice he gave you. You had noticed the building tantrum a week before it got bad enough for him to confront you about it. He always happened to be at the same parties you attended, and whenever you looked his way, he was always watching you, an ugly grimace on his face and an ominous look in his eyes that told you he was seconds away from ripping apart the person who was daring to touch you limb by limb. He was furious and visibly not in control of his emotions. Perhaps that was the reason why you could decipher another emotion in his eyes that you never saw directed at you before, desire. You didn’t know if it really was the first time he looked at you that way or if he always has but knew better to hide it, but that shit was like a drug to you, and you did everything in your power in order to fan that flame. You wore progressively more revealing clothes and acted progressively more wanton. You made sure he always had a good view of you as you put yourself in all kinds of compromising positions.   All your hard efforts culminated to this—him dragging you behind him to his dorm room after he snatched you away from the arms of your dance partner, whom you were practically dry humping on the dance floor.     Jaehyun flings you through the door and slams it behind him, his demeanor chilling. You’ve never seen him this angry before. You genuinely didn’t think that your guardian angel was capable of looking this menacing but somehow you managed to get him to this stage. It didn’t help that his bangs, which were normally styled down to give him a soft and fluffy look, were now sleeked back, making his features look severe and accentuating the fury in his eyes. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, huh? What happened to you?”  “Enjoying my college life?” You hold your head high, refusing to feel belittled by him. “Weren’t you the one who told me to?” “I meant make friends and join clubs, not be the first contender for the title of campus whore!“ He shouts. You knew Jaehyun was drunk, catastrophically so, otherwise he wouldn’t dream of using that tone with you, let alone call you a whore, but it still pissed you off. You also happened to be equally as drunk as he is and fully prepared to retaliate. “Kinda hard to win that contest when you’re the reigning king. Or is it ok and cool when you fuck a different person every night but it’s dirty when I do it? I never took you to be so sexist, oppa.”  “Don’t play dumb, ___. It doesn’t matter what I think of it. You could pretend we live in an ideal world all you want and that a woman and a man can be treated equally, but this is the real world, sweetheart, and it’s ugly and unfair, and it doesn’t care about those naïve ideals you have cooked up in your pretty little head.” Jaehyun gets up in your face and taps on your skull with his fingers, mocking you. “The fact is that a man can sleep around and not catch any flack for it. Hell, he might even be idolized. But a woman like you does it and the size of her tits and how tight or loose her pussy is are the talk of every guy on campus. You may be enjoying yourself now but it won’t be so fun for you when you realize that you’ve made it so all the guys here think you’re only good for being a warm wet hole for them to stick their dicks into.”  You were hurt. Jaehyun has never talked to you like that before. Even during his worst moments, he always took care to choose his words carefully so he wouldn’t hurt you, but now it seemed like he wanted to hurt you. He was being vindictive and petty and nothing at all like the Jaehyun you knew, and it hurt you so bad but it also made you angry beyond belief. You weren’t stupid. You were perfectly aware of how fucked up this world is, but he’s your best friend and he’s supposed to be your slice of utopia in this world. That’s what he had always been. Even if the world was unfair, he always supported you and offered you reprise from it, not parroted the bigotry back at you and made you feel like you have to accept it. If all the guys on campus really thought that way about you then they could go fuck themselves. Anyone who adheres to that ridiculous double standard isn’t worth you wasting a single thought on them. The problem lied in the person that already meant the world to you and yet chose to treat you the same way all those fuckers did. “Do you see me as a hole to stick your dick into as well, oppa? Is that why you’re so fired up about this?” He gapes at you, scandalized. “Are you insane? Don’t talk like that.” “Why? It’s the truth. I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me lately. Your dick wants to fuck this easy pussy, but your head is all conflicted about it because I’m your innocent, little girl and you’re not supposed to be thinking that way about me.” “You must be out of your fucking mind.” He hisses, and it really amazes you how he seemed to be getting angrier by the minute. You didn’t think it was humanely possible, but here he is reaching new heights with it. It should scare you off and that is clearly his intention, but the defensive undertone to his words rung clear in your ears and piqued a dangerous blend of curiosity and self-righteousness within you that urged you to expose him for all his lies.   He was standing so close to you that you only had to raise your hand in order to place it on his chest, “It’s ok, oppa. You’re a man too.” You slowly trail your hand up and down his firm torso, your ears attuned to the way his breathing got less steady with each pass of your hand over his lower stomach. “You’ve spent your whole life trying to distance yourself from the perverted and less civilized of your gender but this whole thing is forcing you to realize that you’re just like them, and all it took were showing a little bit of skin and being a little provocative for you to get off your high horse and deal with the fact that you want to wreck your little angel.” Your hand slides up to latch onto the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly at the small hairs they find there. “You talk about other men, but it’s really you who is thinking those dirty things about me, right, oppa?”   Jaehyun remains frozen and unresponsive, but you could practically feel the barely suppressed anger unfurling under his skin. “So are you going to grow a pair and do something about it or are you going to continue hiding behind your fake concerns?” A tick in his jaw is all the warning you get before he’s grabbing a hold of you and bending you over the arm of the couch. Your shout of indignation cuts off into a sharp cry when you feel his large hand smack your ass. He might as well have slapped you right on the face for the flush that instantly colors it red. But it won’t be alone for long as Jaehyun seems intent on turning your ass even redder than your face is, delivering harsh, incessant smacks to both cheeks. “You just don’t know how to shut up, do you? You think you’re too grown to listen to your oppa anymore, huh? You think this is all fun and games?” He growls. “Oppa! What are you doing?” You shriek out. You were beside yourself with humiliation. Yes, you were goading him just a second ago but you never imagined he would actually do something like this! He chuckles mirthlessly, not stopping his assault. If anything he spanks you harder. “Where did the confident, sexually forward woman go? You’re gonna act all innocent now that you’re faced with the consequences of your actions? Well that’s too bad, angel, it’s a little late for that. If you wanna go around wearing big girl panties and acting like a slut, then you’ll be treated like one.” Fuck, this was so wrong, not just because of the degrading position and the way he was speaking down to you, but because of how much it was actually turning you on. The rumble in his voice and the rough, open-handed strikes he pelts your ass with do nothing but make you squirm with arousal. As you’re stuck trying to juggle between coming to terms with the embarrassing effect he has on you and simultaneously trying to hide it from him, you get struck with a sudden epiphany. You realize now why you had always allowed him to control your life; simply, you enjoyed it. You were just blissfully unaware of how much you’d enjoy him forcing you to submit to him. “Look at this, your skirt isn’t even covering your ass properly. Such a fucking slut.” He tuts, his hand taking a reprise from spanking you to rub over your red, exposed skin. “I can fucking see your pussy from here.” To prove his point, he insinuates his hand between your thighs, his fingers easily coming into contact with said panties. “Fuck, you’re so wet.” He purred, thrilled by your body’s honesty. “You like this, don’t you? You know you deserve to be punished.”  Impatient, he rips the panties down your legs and hurries to put his fingers on you again, moaning in appreciation when they touch the bare, velvety skin. “See? You’re a good girl. You just needed oppa to remind you.” Hearing him praise you like that, you couldn’t help yourself; you feel your pussy clenching around nothing, causing a small dribble of arousal to come out of your hole and coat Jaehyun’s fingers. “Damn, you really are needy. Now I see why you’re sleeping around so much. You can’t help yourself. You need someone to fill you up and take care of the ache in your pussy. Do you want me to do that for you, baby girl? Do you need oppa to stuff you with his cock and make the pain go away?” You feel yourself on the verge of tears, humiliated like you’ve never been before. Jaehyun is making you sound like some kind of a sex-crazed nymphomaniac which you weren’t at all, but it was hard to argue his point when just the light touch of his fingers on your pussy and the faint whiff of his cologne that permeated the air were making you hyperventilate. Feeling embarrassed but desperate, you push your ass back onto his finger and whine, hoping he would take some pity on you and spare you the degradation of having to say it outloud. He responds to that by removing his fingers entirely to deliver two cruel smacks to your already red and sore ass, his wet fingers leaving sticky stains on your cheeks. “That’s not how we ask for something, brat.” “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You wail, “It just hurts so bad!” “Where does it hurt, baby?” He coos, pretending to be concerned. He trails two fingers up and down your slit a few times before they settle against your hole, dipping inside shallowly. “Here?” “Yes! Please, oppa.” You cry out in frustration, putting all your effort into stopping yourself from pushing your ass back again to take his fingers deeper into you.   He hums, pleased with your answer, and rewards you by pushing his fingers all the way inside you, the width of them stinging a bit, but it still felt better than anything you’ve ever experienced before. Guess it’s true that sex with someone you love feels intensifies everything. You were getting so close already, and you try to pull your legs together to rub them against each other, but Jaehyun places himself between them and forces them back apart, smacking your ass with his free hand then massaging where he hit when he hears you whimpering in pain. “You’ve done so well already, don’t misbehave now.” He pumps his fingers in and out of you, and your legs shake with the effort to hold yourself up and keep them spread. Jaehyun notices your distress right away,“Oh, are you close, angel?” He taunts, “Are you that needy? Or do you just want oppa so bad?” “Please, can I cum?” You deflect the question, not feeling up to the effort it would take to lie to him but also not prepared to reveal your lifelong crush on him while you were bent over the couch getting fingered by him. That’s not what your nine year old self imagined it going at all. He sighs, but lets you get away with it. “Yes, sweetheart, you can cum.”   “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” You repeat like a mantra, feeling a sense of unrivaled euphoria ravage your body at how good his fingers feel inside you and how long you’ve been waiting for it. You’re boneless by the time your orgasm dies down, leaving you exhausted and vulnerable to the effects of the alcohol that was finally taking a toll on you. So when you hear the sounds of a zipper going down and a foil package getting ripped opened, you whine insolently, worried that your poor tired body might not be able to survive getting fucked by him if he continues being this rough with you. “Hush, brat.” He slaps you, this time over your sensitive pussy making you spasm in shock before falling boneless again. He gathers you in his arms and lays you on your back on the couch, pulling your thighs tight against your chest. Keeping your legs spread and heels in the air, he pushes himself inside you, grunting, “Take my cock like a good girl. This is what you wanted after all.” When he’s all the way inside you, his breath leaves him in a shaky sigh, and he takes a moment before he starts moving. But when he does, he doesn’t hold back, snapping his hips into you as hard as he had smacked your ass earlier, as if intending to make this into a punishment as well.  It was certainly just as humiliating, for he pushes your top and bra up to your chin so he could leer at your breasts as they bounce up and down with every thrust while his hands keep your legs spread wide with your heels up in the air. You felt every bit the slut he was accusing you of being, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from drenching his cock in your juices, overwhelmed by a crude sense of pleasure at being manhandled and used by him, at having the man you’ve loved all your life claiming you in such a primal way. “Fuck, you’re tightening up.” He drawls, the words heavy on his tongue as he snaps his hips into you harder to overcome the resistance.   Are you gonna cum again? You like my cock that much. baby?” You turn your head to the side, trying to bury your face in the cushions to hide from him, but Jaehyun doesn’t allow it. He stops his movement and tugs on your hair sharply, forcing you to face him again. He bends down so his upper body is draped over you, his face mere inches from yours. The new position has his other hand pressing your thigh harder against your chest, making it cramp, and you whimper in pain. “Oppa, it hurts.”   “Say it, angel.” He lets go of your thigh and moves his hand to your lower abdomen, his thumb hovering just above your clit. “Tell oppa how much you like his cock and I’ll let you cum again.”

His gaze pierces yours, ordering more than asking you to obey him, and it’s a crime how sexy he looks even as his skin glistens and his bangs stick to his forehead with sweat. His figure looms over yours and he exudes a dominance you were no match for. You never were. So, meekly, submissively, you give him what he wants. “I like it so much.” “Like what?” His gaze doesn’t free yours as his hips pick up the pace again. It smolders, lighting your every nerve ending on a fire that is fanned by the grunts and moans that escape through his clenched teeth as he feels your walls clenching down on him.   “Your cock, oppa. I like your cock so much.” You really did. His cock fills you up just right, just a little bit too big so it give you that delicious burn as it forces its way between your walls, but not too big to actually hurt you. All that sleeping around must’ve did wonders for his skills because he knew just how to move his hips, which angle to hit to make your mind go blank and submit to him. “Please let me cum on your cock.” You whine, fearing that the overwhelming pleasure might short-circuit your heart if it didn’t find a release soon. “Plea—AH, fuck, Jae, Jae!” It only takes a couple of flicks of his thumb to have you spasm around him. He fucks you through it, grunting with effort as your walls get even tighter, making it harder for him to keep fucking you, but he doesn’t stop. Your orgasm feels never ending as he drags it out in order to reach his own, stretching your nerves thin with the over stimulation. Finally, finally, his hips stutter and he give you one last brutal thrust before he groans and collapses over you. His sweaty body, his hot breaths in the crook of your neck, and his cock throbbing inside of you as he cums almost suffocate you. The heat of him around you, inside of you, is overwhelming, and you feel like you’re trapped inside a furnace. Just before you start gasping for breath, he gets off of you, taking care to not let the condom slip inside of you as he pulls it off and ties it then gets up to dispose of it. Without his body warmth, and his warm presence, your entire body erupts into goosebumps, and you quickly yearn for his suffocating heat once again. Luckily, Jaehyun’s absence doesn’t last for long. Ever the gentleman, he comes back with a wet, warm towel that he uses to clean up the mess you’ve made between your legs. When he’s done, he tosses it to the side and scoops you up in his arms, taking you to his room. He sets you down on the bed gently, taking care to avoid putting pressure on your bruised bottom. You’re like a rag doll in his hands as he strips you down and dresses you up in one of his big shirts. He then grabs some cream, and coaxing you to lie on your stomach, he massages it on your reddened bottom, kissing the top of your head softly every time you wince in pain. When he’s done with everything, he engulfs you in his arms and whispers a soft good night in your ear.      

And sure it felt great to be treated so tenderly by him, that was one of the reasons you were so ready to submit to him in the first place; Jaehyun always knew how to make it worth your while. He knew how to pamper you so you’d strive to please him in order to get more of it.

On the surface of it, this looked like everything you’ve ever wanted, if only it wasn’t ruined by your knowledge that it was decidedly not. This isn’t a boyfriend caring for his lover after sharing a heated moment of intimacy. This was… well, you didn’t even know what the hell it was, and the huge question mark that hung in the air kept you from deriving any sense of enjoyment out of the situation.

You need to talk about what just happened. You needed to know what this means. Did Jaehyun like you too or was this just a sexual thing? Does he even find you sexually attractive or was he just drunk and pissed off? Is this something that could possibly happen again? Can there be something more?

You had so many questions to ask, but your eyelids were heavy and your mind was heavier, and before you knew it, it shut down on you mid-thought and plunged you into the blissful land of slumber.

“Let’s go get your stuff.”

“What?” You croak, barely having woken up yet, not to mention that some motherfucker was pounding on the inside of your skull like he was trying to break out.

Jaehyun stares at you, his eyes unnerving and entirely too sober. “You’re moving in with me. I need to keep a closer eye on you from now on. I won’t let you continue living this kind of lifestyle.”

Just like that, all sleep flew from your mind.

“What the actual fuck, Jaehyun?” You explode, “At least make a girl some breakfast before you go full chauvinist on her.”

“That’s not funny.” He deadpans, “I’m worried about you.”

“Well, you don’t need to. I’m a big girl. I don’t need you to check for monsters under my bed anymore.” You retort, incredibly annoyed that this was the direction the conversation was taking. This isn’t what you thought you’d be talking about. Dumb, little girl.

“Here we go again.” He rolls his eyes, and your cheeks flame at how condescending the gesture was. “You’re just a child who is playing at being an adult. You don’t realize the mess you’re getting yourself into. I can’t stand by and let you ruin yourself like this. I’ve taken care of you your whole life and I’m not about to stop now, even if you’re going to hate me for it.”

“I’m not your fucking doll, Jaehyun. Don’t I get to have a say in my own life? God, are you even listening to yourself?” You massage your forehead, unable to contend with both the headache and the unreasonable man. It was different when you were drunk and horny and trying to get into his pants, but now his words sounded just as ridiculous to you as they were. “If I had known you’d turn into this sexist, controlling asswipe the moment I did something you didn’t like, I would never have come here.”

He flinches at your words, looking wounded, but you can’t find it in you to feel sorry for him. He brought this on himself.

“I only want what’s best for you, angel.” He takes your hand between his own but you yank it away.

“You think slutshaming and controlling me is what’s best for me? It’s what’s best for you. You can’t handle that I’m not the virginal little girl you used to know and that I’m now a woman with an actual sex drive. You don’t like the ugly truth it’s making you confront about yourself so you want to force me to wear my old skin again so you can go on pretending you’re still the nice guy you always thought you were. You’re such a fucking hypocrite, Jaehyun.”  

“You’re right. I am a hypocrite. I criticized you for the same thing I gave myself a pass for, and that’s not fair.”

“Thank you.” You mumble, finding it strange how he gave in so easily, but feeling relieved nonetheless.

“So I should stop too. I won’t fuck around anymore. I’ll clean up my act and go back to being the older brother you deserve.”

“What?” You sputter, dumbfounded. “That’s not what I’m saying. You can fuck whoever you want. I don’t care.”

Your protest was weak and you knew it. You did care, a whole fucking lot. You were accusing him of being a hypocrite, yet here you are, ready to denounce your sexual awakening in exchange for keeping him celibate as well. It just hurt so bad to see him with all those women, and it never, ever got better. So if the price of you never having to see that sight again is sacrificing your own sexual freedom then would that really be so bad? You’ve lived through that before. You’re used to it.

“I know you don’t.” He gives you a strange smile, one you’ve never seen on his face before, and yet it feels so profoundly familiar. When he takes your hand in his again, you let him. “But I care. I care about being someone you respect and look up to, and I won’t achieve that by sleeping around.”

“I would still respect you even if you slept around, oppa. It’s your choice. I don’t want to snuff out your love life.” Your words said one thing, but your body language said another. You were looking at him with big, wet eyes and a woeful face that you knew he could never resist. You were playing the role of the martyr who is willing to sacrifice her own happiness in order to make him happy, because you knew that Jaehyun would never allow that to happen.

“You’re not snuffing out my love life. I can still date.” You couldn’t keep your face from visibly falling at that, and he hurries to clarify, thinking that your problem lied in his double standards again rather than your jealousy over him being with another woman. “And you can too! I’m not against you finding a nice guy and building a long lasting and loving relationship with him. On the contrary, that would make me so happy.”

He gives you a bright smile that you mirror with your own soulless one, but he doesn’t notice your lack of enthusiasm, and continues on. “I know that sleeping around isn’t necessarily a bad thing nor does it make you a bad person, but I just want to make sure that no one is taking advantage of you and that you’re safe and with someone who deserves you. Of course, he’d have to come through me first.” He chuckles, but this time you don’t even bother giving him a reaction.

“Is that alright with you, angel?” His knuckles caress your cheek softly, and you close your eyes, leaning into his touch and resigning yourself to a life of being wrapped around his finger. “Yes, oppa.”

A/N: I’m on hiatus so I don’t have time to pour over this story as I normally would have so excuse the cheese and the cliches. Anyway feedback keeps me alive so I’d love to hear from you guys.

[happy-haunts]

Madame Leota pt. 1

Madame Leota pt. 1

Chapter one | Constance pt.1 : Constance pt.2

Chapter two | Mister Topper pt.1 : Mister Topper pt.2

Chapter three | Madame Leota pt.1 : Madame Leota pt.2

Chapter four | The Hostess

Chapter five | Captain Blood pt.1 : Captain Blood pt.2

Chapter six | Emily DeClaire pt.1 : Emily DeClaire pt.2 : Emily DeClaire pt.3

Chapter seven | Finale

WARNING THIS POST CONTAINS THEMES OF VIOLENCE AND ABUSE!

The powers of the great beyond shuddered under the grasp of my incantations as the spirits whispered secrets into my ears- two of our own were approaching and with them were questions of which they sought me to answer. But deeper and deeper still I dug into their truest desires and as I pried prodded my eyes flashed open at the sound of Constance Hatchaway and Red bursting through my door.

I might not have a body but if I did then I would have been tapping my foot at the sudden intrusion. “I expect you both have a better reason for barging in here than just for me to tell you about our Bride?” Red was in awe at my knowledge of their quest.

“Okay so ... We actually do, can you explain why Constance and Hatty can’t remember things? And not like in the ‘we’re super old and lost our orthopedic slippers’ way but in the ‘we’re super old and hot and I can’t remember the story I literally gave a detailed synopsis of one minute ago’ kind of way.” Red took a seat at my table after her long winded speech, my head was resting on a metal stand inside of a glowing green crystal ball before her.

“Of course I can.” I moved my aura on a deck of tarot cards and flipped them up to face me one at a time.

“You seek the answers to the oddities of the Mansion, the force at work which controls the mansion and all inside.” I set down the cards neatly in their stack and then started the dramatic music behind them.

“Controls the mansion? There’s something controlling all of us?” Red asked, Constance was sitting beside her now, her eyes staring off as she was furiously trying to remember what they were doing.

“Not all of us ... I am immune since I am the one who gave the entity their power in the first place.”

“Oh so you just give out otherworldly magic on your off days? Is it just a hobby knotting up all of that black magic and gifting it to customers?” Red crossed her arms and slumped in her chair.

“I don’t give out the powers of the universe like candy!” I growled, but pursed my lips and avoided Red’s gaze. “However I may charge a fee- but we can discuss prices a little later.”

“I don’t want any magic of regions beyond!” Red sighed, “I want to know why this is happening to Constance and how to stop it.”

“It’s not happening to you.” I pointed out, “Surely you’re curious about that?” She fidgeted in her chair but gave a little nod as she pouted.

“Yeah... a little I guess.”

“The entity YOU’RE dealing with only controls the ghosts who belong to the mansion, you don’t belong to the mansion since your remains nor your death involved the manor, therefore whatever it is attempting to do with Constance cannot be accomplished with you.”

“The entity I’M dealing with? Is there more than one?” I grinned.

“I believe I should start from the beginning.”

“Or you could just give me straight answers so we don’t have to stretch this out over several chapters.” I whacked Red upside the head with my tambourine and refused to acknowledge her fourth wall break.

❧

I loved my childhood, my parents were always quite understanding of me even when I would act up - which was quite often - and the caravan would tell them to be stricter with me.

I was ungrateful for what I had and would always want more, I was a selfish child - no matter where we went I would always want to stay in the townsfolk’s houses and want to eat fine meats from the butcher... But we didn’t have enough money to get any of those things.

I began to grow older and as a teen I ran away from the caravan, I would go into the nearest town to dance for money in the streets and buy myself sweets - then refuse to eat the meals they cooked in the evenings.

One day I had done just that and headed off towards the current town we were in near - we travelled all around Europe and Africa so it’s hard to keep track of town names. I was approached by a man on my walk who was rather plump, he had straw decorating his ankles, a skirt that was a combination of a red and white fabric as well as straw, around his neck were beads and ... a shrunken head, his hair was black like coal just as his eyes were, face decorated with red paint, and seated on his head was a black top hat.

“Good evening young lady my name is Trader Sam, and what is a little girl like you doing out here all alone?”

“I don’t see why it’s any of your business.” I said while raising my chin as though he was beneath me.

“You seem rather put together for a girl of your age.”

“Because I am, now if you excuse me I have to get to work.”

“Of course, I apologize.” I gave a little nod and turned away only for him to continue talking. “I was going to tell you how to earn even more money without even having to work ... But I understand.” I turned to face him again.

“How do you do that?”

“Oh I don’t want to keep you from your work, so I had better go.”

“Wait! I asked you a question!” He smiled and propped himself forward on his umbrella. “Tell me how to make money without having to work.”

“Well if you want to really know then we’ll have to make a deal first.” I crossed my arms and leaned back - glaring at him suspiciously.

“What kind of deal?”

“It’s more of a trade really - I take something of value to you and you take all of my secrets.”

“Secrets...?”

“Yes, because you know the only way to make money without working is magic.”

“Oh please, there isn’t any such thing as magic.” He lifted his palm and after a moment a green ball of fire appeared, I gasped and stepped back from him - he extinguished the flame. “How did you do that?”

“Magic.” He shrugged, “And I can give you all that power - all of the freedom to do as you please ... If you are willing to make a deal.”

I let the offer sink in - it was everything I could ever want! No more dragging around the caravan, no more cooking rabbit for supper, and no more needing to rely on nasty rich people to pity us.

“I ... I’ll make a deal with you.” Trader Sam grinned while extending his hand to me.

“Then lets shake on it.”

As I took his hand the shrunken head that hung around his neck opened it’s mouth and a green ball of fire like the one Trader Sam made before floated in the air towards me- absorbing into my chest.

“And now for your payment, I shall take what is most valuable to you.” I patted myself down, I hardly had any money on me - but he seemed to chuckle at my searching. “Oh no, not monetary value ...” He lifted his hands and my parents appeared on either side of him.

“Wait! You can’t take my parents!”

“You shouldn’t have been so careless, they are what you value most.”

“Leota? What is going on?” My mother hissed, but Trader Sam snapped his fingers and my parents were now two shrunken heads in his hand.

“GIVE THEM BACK!” I screamed and blasted one of those green orbs towards him - Sam merely shielded himself with his umbrella and turned away from me. I was crying now while the rage filled my chest, “Don’t walk away!” And he stopped in place, “I want you to be rooted to that spot for the rest of your life.” He peered back to me, now a little nervous.

“I think we can come to some kind of deal here ....”

“Give me back my parents and I’ll set you free.” I was having a hard time seeing him since so many tears were rolling down my cheeks.

“I can’t do that, once a deal has been made then there is no reversing it ... Besides that you parents are...” He lifted the shrunken heads. “Well and gone.” I clenched my fists, screaming while falling onto my knees.

“You’re an absolutely terrible man!”

“Perhaps, but that’s how I became head salesman.” I couldn’t take it any longer, I picked myself up and walked away - listening to his pleas of mercy slowly fade the further I separated myself from him.

❧

I couldn’t show my face in my old caravan after that, I decided that I would travel to a new continent and lucky for me there was a ship leaving for the Americas when I reached the harbor.

I snuck aboard and once I arrived at our destination I set out to find a new home.

I manifested a wagon and I travelled across the Americas for several years before I found a town that hadn’t immediately shown me out upon seeing my psychic reading skills.

This town was New Orleans Square, and being that I was now 29 by the time of finally finding a tolerable town - I was glad to bring my traveling to a halt. The town was nothing too fancy or large with green metal rails decorating balconies, red brick homes, and trees that were decorated with swamp moss.

I set up my wagon near the edge of the town so not to block any paths for the townspeople, and the morning after I brought out my table as well as my crystal ball to sit outside and entice people to my readings.

It didn’t take long before a gentleman approached my table, “So you must be the famous Madame Leota.” He grinned - the man looked young but his hair was startlingly white and he wore a noose around his neck.

“Famous? I only just arrived here yesterday sir - you are my first customer.”

“No, no the apparitions have been speaking about you all night - they hardly get any real entertainment, most of the time they hang around family members and criticize their life choices.” I blinked but smiled to the man, what a very strange thing to say.

“I didn’t know anyone else could converse with the dead - let alone do it passively.”

“Yes it was quite the shock when I was younger! I was at my dear Granny’s funeral when I saw my first spirit - she was quite livid that they had decided to have an open casket instead of cremating her like she wanted to be.”

“I would be livid too, what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.” He said flatly and sat in the chair across from me, “But if you would like to know it is Vincent Beauregard Gracey, eldest in the Gracey line.”

“I didn’t know there was a Gracey line, but it’s good to meet you Vincent.”

“Mister Gracey - please.” I cocked an eyebrow at his boldness.

“Mister Gracey then... I am Madame Leota.” He seemed to pay me no mind as he sat in the chair- his eyes wandering over my wagon.

“Memento Mori ... So you are also a fan of the Macabre?” I gritted my teeth at the mention but eventually relaxed, giving a polite smile to the man.

“Yes, I have a few regrets and because of this I am patiently waiting for the moment when I can cease to exist, thus I will always remember death.” Vincent nodded approvingly.

“If you would like to go sooner I have this.” He lifted his noose that hung around his scrawny neck, “I haven’t the time to get to using it myself but perhaps someday.” He sighed, “The spirits make the afterlife look like such a good time.”

“I would like to see the afterlife if it’s as much fun as you say.” His eyes met with mine for the first time and he leaned his elbows on the edge of my table.

“Well now, if you would like I can show you my graveyard tonight over dinner?”

“I think I would like that very much Mister Gracey.”

“Then it’s a date.”

❧

I slaved away the rest of the day before finally getting to close up shop and go into town to buy a dress especially for tonight.

What a man, He could commune with the dead AND owned a graveyard? He must have been after my heart with a line like that.

I asked around the town for the home of a Vincent Gracey - which greeted me with anxious glances, eventually I was pointed to the mansion at the end of town and I had finally arrived.

I had chosen a blood red gown that popped from my dark brown skin, my brown hair was pinned up and two red droplets hung from my ears.

Vincent was standing at the large iron gate which led to his backyard, he took my hand and kissed the knuckles before leading me into a graveyard filled with what must have been somewhere near 900 graves? Atop some of the headstones were candles that made a path to a table for two, red roses decorated the table.

“I apologize for the florals - it seems my gardener had gotten rid of all my decaying roses.” How considerate!

“No need to apologize, this is still very lovely.”

“Won’t you sit? Feel free to speak with whomever you choose that has passed on - they seem to know quite a bit about you it seems.” I was taking my seat as he said so and looked up in confusion.

“How is that? I’ve hardly done anything of noting.”

“They say you’ve thwarted a warlock by the age of 13.” I unconsciously soured my expression.

“He was hardly a warlock, just a slimey black magic dealer - he swindled me out of having parents.” Vincent considered me for a moment while I took to composing myself, after all it was my fault ... I was a rotten child that had no business trying to act as though she was grown.

“How very tragic for you my dear ...” He placed his hand over my own, his eyes were like sapphires. “I knew a girl who lost her parents once, she was an odd one such as you and I - she romanticized those who had passed on without even knowing that they lived among us nor having any power to know as much.” He stroked my hand with his thumb as he knitted his brow, “I used to live with my parents in their mansion - it also had a graveyard of the Gracey’s whom passed before us, but there were a great deal of them which remained unmarked or were so old the names had faded ... Leaving them to be forgotten.”

“How terrible ...”

“But as if out of the blue, flowers began appearing on those graves every night - naturally my parents thought it was me since I usually strolled through the graveyard to converse with my deceased family. Curious about the mysterious visitor I decided to ask about it to the dead - it was a young girl that visited every night followed by two apparitions which were trying to interact with her. More intrigued than before I decided to wait for her to arrive - she was small with short hair and wearing a mourning gown, the two ghosts behind her were telling her to leave the town.” Vincent pulled his hand back and sighed. “Not long after the flowers stopped being placed on the unmarked grave.”

“Did she die?” I whispered - invested in the story.

“No, not quite.” He tilted his head to the side and looked past me a moment, his eyes lit with excitement. “My brother is home!”

“Brother? Here? Now?” I felt broken hearted when he said so, we hadn’t even eaten supper yet.

“No! No! Some family is visiting from Liberty Square and they said my brother has just arrived home! I haven’t seen him since mother and father sent him off to join the Navy, oh but I don’t think he’ll much like if I visit him - we never got along very well.” Vincent locked eyes with me and grinned, “Leota! You can visit my brother for me and tell him I’m in New Orleans Square! You can tell him to come visit me!” My heart began to sink even more as he proposed the plan.

“Well I suppose I could -.”

“Wonderful! We must cut the evening short and you need to head on your way at once! Oh and if you could send my greetings to the residents in the graveyard as well- that would be just fantastic of you.”

❧

And that’s just how life is - one moment you think you’ve met the man of your dreams, and the next moment he is sending you to a wealthy town to say hello to his wealthy brother and dead family members.

Liberty Square was all brick and white picket fences (with the exception of the Gracey Mansion) the people were suspicious and distant. I needed pointing to where Mister Gracey lived so I stopped a large man who wore a grey suit with a yellow ascot tucked into his vest.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for the home of a Mister Gracey?”

“It’s at the end of the road - I would think a slave would keep better track of her master’s home.” Some of the townspeople near him snickered at me.

“What did you just call me?” I growled, stepping toe to toe with him now. “I think you should evaluate your words before you speak them, otherwise I might hitch you up to a wagon like the ass you make yourself out to be.” The man adjusted himself as he turned a light pink.

“You had better watch your tongue, woman, and recognize who you’re speaking to.”

“My apologies- you must be a pig instead of an ass.” His face turned deep red as he raised his hand to strike but a man in a black coat grabbed his wrist and leaned towards the older gentleman.

“Well now, lets not cause a scuffle right here in the streets.” His hair was curly and black, pale skin, and ... sapphire eyes. “I heard there was a green-eyed woman looking for my place around town, so naturally I went on my own little adventure.”

“William, you had better keep your help in line.” The older gentleman yanked his arm from William and straightened out his coat.

“She’s not my help, Mister Mayor, I think she’s new in town - but allow me ma’am.” He linked his arm with mine and began walking me down the street.

“That man is your Mayor? He’s an insufferable ass.” William laughed and patted my arm.

“Yes, yes he is - but he is like an angel to the town, they all fear the changing times and the mayor is an unmoving stone ... Their only constant.” How sad that so many people could be so fearful of the future and the unknown, that they would just let such a man have power. “On a lighter note, why is it that you were seeking me out?”

“Ah, your brother wanted me to send you his greetings from New Orleans Square, he would like you to visit him now that you’re back.”

William rolled his eyes, “I’m not going to visit that ghost seeing idiot - does he still wear a noose around his neck?” I nodded, “Of course he does!” He unhooked our arms and ran his fingers through his hair. “I apologize, I just don’t much care for my brother ... either one of them.”

“There is another one of you?”

“Yes, Dorian ... He’s the middle brother and he’s full of himself! Probably married a mirror for all I know.” William shook his head, “No, no, enough talk about my family - where are you staying miss...?”

“Leota, I have a wagon that I left in the woods, I’ll probably make camp there tonight.”

“If it’s even still there, we have gypsies that live in our woods Miss Leota so you may wish to stay at my home tonight - if not then hurry back to make sure they haven’t mistaken it for something abandoned.”

“I’ll probably just go back and get it, however I wouldn’t mind sleeping in a real bed - that is if you have somewhere I can store my wagon?”

“But of course, my doors are always open.” He lifted my hand and kissed the knuckles with a wink, before I turned away towards the woods as the sun went down.

❧

Lucky for me my wagon was still seated among the trees where I had left it, as I assessed the inside to make sure nothing was missing I heard music off in the distance, curious I stepped back outside into the night and noticed the light just beyond where I was.

It seemed to be a camp, upon closer inspection I saw it was a caravan of only 10-20 people - how had they gotten so small?

“What do you want?” Called a man, he drew a knife as I came into the firelight.

“I mean no harm, I’m camped just beyond those trees and saw the fire - I was just wondering who my neighbors were.”

“She has witch eyes...” One man whispered,

“I don’t need a witch in our caravan, we suffer enough as is.”

“Calm down, I’m not a witch - witches are far less powerful.” I rolled my eyes, “But everyone is so scared of them because their hats are pointy! Oh no!” I feigned fear and placed my hands on my hips.

“As if a witch wasn’t bad enough, you’re a devil then.”

“Stop it!” A girl stepped in front of the man - she wore a yellow dress, dark brown hair, tanned skin, and flowers knotted in her hair. “She has already said she meant no harm, there is no need to be so mean!” She held her arms out shielding me.

“Emily, you’re too naive! This woman curses people!” The girl named Emily turned around - looking me up and down with her bright blue eyes.

“She seems normal enough to me.” A sly grin slid over my lips.

“Fine, if it will calm your nerves then I’ll make a deal with you...” I held out my hand to the man, “I will not harm this caravan in any way and in return I will ask one favor of you when I need it.”

“No way, I’m not going to risk whatever you ask of me.” He crossed his arms but the girl grabbed onto my hand and gave it a hearty shake.

“Deal!” She grinned and the deal was made. “There, now your caravan is off limits and no one needs to worry anymore.”

The man was pale as he looked to Emily, but in his astonishment he couldn’t find any words to reprimand her so ... he walked away.

“You know that was quite foolish of you, I can ask anything of you and you’ll have no choice but to obey.”

“Yes well, you don’t seem like you’ll make me do anything too bad - I trust you.” She looked behind me to my wagon, “Are you going to be heading back to town? I should start heading back home anyway so I’ll walk with you.”

I almost lost it when she said that, “Are you telling me you live in town? You aren’t even part of this caravan?” Emily seemed confused but she answered regardless.

“No, but they’re good people - they get harassed a lot by the town so they’re a bit more wary of strangers but they really aren’t all that bad.”

“You really are naive ... “ I sighed and headed with her to my wagon.

❧

I stayed at Mister Gracey’s that night - he had his red coated servants take my wagon while William gave me the grand tour. The manor itself was grand in a gothic style, the very entrance had long walls looking like they stretched to eternity- if it weren’t for Williams’ instruction I would have thought there were no windows or doors, it took us to the hallways which were a royal purple - with a wallpaper that felt as though it watched me, then we went off into the grandballroom - it seemed to be set apart from the rest of the mansion since it was decorated in silvers and whites with white billowing curtains over the windows which were as high as the house itself, and then he showed me the backyard where members of his family were buried and where I told the residents that Vincent said hello.

“He really wanted you to talk to the dead for him?” William scoffed.

“What is it about our abilities that you doubt?”

“Hm, perhaps the existence of magic in general? It’s all just observation and parlor tricks.”

“Well maybe I’ll be able to change your mind while I’m here... but for now, goodnight Mister Gracey.”

“For fucks sake just call me William, I hate all that title crap- er and goodnight Leota.”

Getting up the next morning I decided to entice the young Gracey by setting up my reading table not too far from his front door. I also wasn’t sure how this town would take to such an occult dealing on their streets, but I was happily surprised when I had quite the line of folks wanting to know their desires or if their husbands were cheating on them.

One young lady sat at my table wearing a mourning gown, her hair was blonde, and eyes dark blue.

“Why such a beautiful young woman, what is your name and what do you ask of Madame Leota?”

“I’m Constance Hatchaway, I wanted to know... if I ever find true love?” She blushed but the harsh look on her eyes never faded.

“Let us look, may I have your hands?” She reached out and I closed my eyes.

Seeing into the future was much easier than reading a person - all it took was a conduit made of some kind of stone or glass(my crystal ball) and the physical touch of the person whom wants to know their fate.

I walked on top of a river made of stars as I searched for her request, leaning down every now and again to reach into the river and inspect the stars which contained every moment in her life. I searched until I came to an abrupt halt from the stars ... This was the line of death, where the river stops then so does ones life - but amazingly beyond the gap were blue stars! It was impossible but I was seeing into her afterlife, upon further inspection there was a certain star among them that glowed a warm red color and as I picked it up I was overcome with such joy I couldn’t help but laugh.

I released Constance’s hands as I was still laughing - now wiping away a tear.

“It’ll take a long time but you will find true love.” I leaned close to her as she leaned in with me. “And she will be beautiful.”

“T-thank you!” Constance blushed and scrambled to stand as she stuffed money into my jar.

It was rather nice to know at least one person in the town was normal.

My relief was short lived as the Mayor stood before me now, his hands clasped behind him as his sky blue eyes evaluated my set up.

“And what can I help you with?” I growled.

“I was just wondering if you had permission to set up shop here? But of course I know you don’t since you would have had to ask me personally.”

What a jackass.

“I don’t believe you have jurisdiction over someone’s private property.”

“Oh but I do.” He leaned down with his hands clutching the edge of my table, I was lucky it didn’t snap under his weight. The mayor wasn’t a fat man but rather built for someone of his age, and taller than any man I’d ever seen - the best way I could describe him was a brick wall. “You see I run the town and the town pays their taxes which means they pay me... to live here. You wouldn’t want me to evict your master now would you?” I sucked in a breath and glared, giving a glance behind him - hoping someone was there to perform a reading on but it seemed he waited till everyone had gone for the day, but a thought crossed my mind.

“Dear Mister Mayor...” I cooed, “Won’t you let me give you a free reading to make up for this? I can search deep down to your truest desires - things you may not realize you have been denying.” He seemed to think about it a moment before taking a seat across from me and placing his hands palm up on either side of my crystal ball.

I placed my palms atop his and closed my eyes.

[rather-impertinent]

Ignorance Is Bliss

A/N: I understand why there’s been no Carolight fluff/real affection the first 3 eps given their upcoming story arc and wanting to make that believable. But I wanted fluff so I wrote some, while attempting to touch on the obvious distance between them. I’m placing this between 5.03 and 5.04, enjoy friends xo

******

It was an unassuming Saturday morning in June when Dwight and Caroline Enys strolled through the marketplace in Truro, which was abuzz with locals selling and purchasing all manner of things from their dinner to their dignity.

Due to the appearance of the warm sun - which edged away the fluffy white clouds which seemed to be as much of a Cornish landmark as Stepper Point - the marketplace was bustling with people of all ranks vying for some of the fresh, local produce and products.

The Enyses, led by Dwight, slipped through the crowds in a single file, bound by their clasped hands. A man suddenly unceremoniously walked into Caroline and offered no apology for the collision, which earned the stranger an affronted glance from Dwight, who opened his mouth to protest, but was hastened on by Caroline’s hand pushing him onwards and out of trouble.

“Dr Enys, let us not spend your first day off in a month brawling in the street,” Caroline warned, a clear smile in her voice.

Dwight took a deep breath and relaxed as they continued their way through the crowded area; he found that, for whatever reason, his fuse was very short these days. “Agreed.”

The concentration of people grew thinner as they made their way out of what was widely considered as the centre of the town. The lessening crowd was fortunate for many grocers displayed their fruits and vegetables on the border of the area. The scent of fresh citrus filled in the air, recently unearthed potatoes demanded to be diced and boiled, and garlic hung like pearls on a string about the stalls.

“Ooh, those raspberries look delicious,” Caroline noticed as they passed them, licking her unpainted lips.

Dwight immediately halted their onward march and negotiated a price for a punnet with the stall-owner and offered him 3 shillings for a bountiful portion of the crimson berries. “Here you are, my love,” Dwight chirped, handing them to her.

Accepting them with muted glee, Caroline glanced at husband and carefully linked her arm through his. “Thank you. You spoil me, Dr Enys.” Her tone was sincere and not sarcastic.

A surprised laugh escaped his lips. “A small box of raspberries is akin to spoiling?” he wondered, thoughtfully creasing his face as they continued their way down the cobbled street. Perhaps he needn’t have nigh-on collapsed from stress in the jewellers or the tailors all these years.

Steering them to the left down a quiet alleyway which led to Boscowan park, Caroline placed a piece of the pink fruit in her mouth and hummed in pleasure. “Well, these raspberries certainly are akin to spoiling. Besides, it is the thought that counts, is it not?”

Dwight suspiciously creased his brows at her. “How unusually sentimental of you,” the doctor commented, the ghost of a smirk on his face as he eyed his wife out of the corner of his eye.

Caroline rolled her eyes at him and smothered a smile by placing several more raspberries into her mouth. She was making a more concentrated effort to show him her appreciation. There had been an unspoken distance between them since Sarah died - a chasm, even - which, for reasons unclear, had been exacerbated of late. The distance resulted in some bad days and some good days. Today felt like a good day. Once finished chewing, Caroline retorted: “Well, I cannot leave all the romantic moral high ground to you, lest you grow lonely up there.”

Dr Enys’ laughter bounced off the trees in the park, startling the slumbering geese which rested on the banks of the river, who then proceeded to fly away in search of a more peaceful sanctuary.

Having found a quiet and deserted yet beautiful spot after a short walk, Dwight removed his grey jacket for Caroline to sit on and took a seat next to her on the lush and undewed green grass.

Caroline smoothed the skirts of her favourite pink gown, taking care not to get any grass stains. She removed her bonnet and reclined comfortably on her husband’s jacket, enjoying the feeling of the soft grass beneath her.

With a twinge of guilt as he looked out at the river, Dwight realised that he could not recall the last time they spent an entire day alone together, each offering each other their undivided attention. It was his doing, that he knew for certain. He had been so busy of late and did not dare decline a single patient or opportunity which came his way, lest he have to confront the reality of his own mental health, or that of his wife’s, or the damage which had been done to their marriage by their avoidance of the subject. But today was too fine a day for such heavy subject matter, and the conversation could be avoided for another day or two. Or three or four. Ignorance is bliss, is it not?

Caroline sighed blissfully as the warm sun shone on her face; she blindly reached for the punnet of fruit and popped a raspberry into her mouth. Her actions distracted him from his more unpleasant thoughts, and he observed her with a grateful smile. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and tempered’,” Dwight quoted with adoring eyes.

Caroline brought her hand up to her brow bone to shield her eyes from the sun. A wry smile pulled on her mouth. “Temperate,” she corrected, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye, her teasing smirk barely contained.

With a grin, Dwight shuffled closer to his wife and propped himself up on his right elbow. “Ah, the error is no doubt the result of my not being educated at Eton or Harrow. Shall you hold it against me?” he asked her, his face leaning over hers.

Mrs Enys shook her head. “No, I think not,” she answered, meeting his gaze; it never failed to surprise her how blue his eyes truly were - they could rival the Cornish sea on a calm day.

Their faces were mere inches apart now, the sun’s rays only able to illuminate Caroline’s right ear. “Why ever not?” he murmured, his glance flickering to her lips.

Many witty retorts immediately sprang to her mind but given the serene summer’s day, Caroline decided to hold her teasing tongue and speak a little more from the heart; which she had been practicing more of late. “I like you well enough just as you are.” There had been prettier declarations of love, she knew, but one does not need to be a personified Shakespeare sonnet to get one’s feelings across.

Besides, Dwight had always understood her meaning - even when she did not even understand it herself - and the touched look in his eyes illustrated the fact. The sunlight became blocked from her ear. Their lips softly brushed as Dwight murmured: “I like you very much, too.”

Unsatisfied with the gentleness, Caroline put her hand to the nape of his neck and kissed him fiercely. It had been a long while - too long - since she had kissed him like this, since he had kissed her like this, and the world around them narrowed down to the feeling of their lips pressed together and the desire that coursed through their veins.

Dwight hummed thoughtfully against her lips. Caroline broke the kiss, opened her eyes and waited for him to speak. “You were correct; those raspberries are delicious,” he commented, mischievously licking his lips.

Caroline let out a scoff-laugh. “My love, you are quite scandalous - you forget yourself.” Dwight grinned in reply. “What am I to do with you?” she wondered, pursing her lips in mock consideration.

Dr Enys, too, feigned consideration. “Do I shock you?”

The sun rose higher in the sky, as though encouraging their banterous exchange. “You do,” Caroline told him, fingering with the ends of his slightly loosened neckcloth. “You need lessons in decorum.”

“An excellent idea,” enthused Dwight, caressing Caroline’s arm, “who better to teach me than a heiress?”

Caroline hummed and schooled a smile. “And are you acquainted with any?”

“I am. Though, I must ask her an important question.” Dwight smiled and put a raspberry into his mouth, the juices coating his tastebuds.

Her gaze distractedly focused on his lips, it only occurred to Caroline after several seconds to ask, “Pray, what is the question?”

Dwight leaned down and kissed her, his lips slightly sticky: they trailed the sharp line of her jaw before making their way to her throat. “Can we start my lessons tomorrow?” he breathed against her neck.

Caroline glanced about them trying to ensure no one else was there to see them behaving so improperly in public. Assured that they were indeed alone and concealed by the trees behind them, Caroline tilted her neck to allow Dwight better access to her sensitive spots. She sighed when his lips suckled on a spot behind her ear, and she combed her fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow,” she readily agreed.